The Ferryman - Book 1

Chapter 65:

A Tiding of Shamans

The night in the garret was as unpleasant as the night in the living room. The dark corners of the room were heavy and mishappened, while the bright moonlight behind the branches cast shadows like horns, quivering in the wind.

The carved faces – the ones not scratched to oblivion – stared down in anguish from the window trim. One of them had glass marble eyes and it glinted and gleamed all night.

When she did sleep, she had dreams about Quin – shapeless but dreadful – so when Moth did at last wake up the next morning she felt as exhausted as if she’d walked all night.

Moth sat up in bed and stared at the floor.

In her daydreams mere weeks ago, she’d pictured a joyous and exhilarating return, a reunion – but she only felt tired. She had to wait for the word to spread to the farmers, for them to gather to hear about the sunstones, and now she must wait anxiously.

Rummaging through her packed clothes, none of them were useful for the day. One was marked ‘entry clothes for first burial’, another ‘Pahkinna’, another ‘snowfall riding outfit – reindeer or horse’, but none was marked ‘waiting at Poor Loom for the farmers.’

With that in mind, Moth put on Lt. Grotte’s clothes from yesterday – still dirty with cobwebs – and opened the window, letting air into her stuffy garret.

It had snowed early that morning. The spring, which had seemed so strong a week ago, was once again buried.

Moth leaned on the windowsill and admired the grove, pillowed and soft with the snow, with valiant lily-of-the-valley still happily poking up between the drifts – and as she looked, Moth saw patches of violent red, like blood across the snow.

She blinked and leaned out the window to see better.

Shamans. Dozens of them. Their bright red outfits shouted out from the shadows of the trees. They sat on spread out blankets around small fires, burning incense and smoking pipes. Waiting. They wore the traditional red split shoes and horns of shamans – some regally dressed, while others were shabby, their aspen-patterned aprons in need of darning.

Moth quietly closed her window and turned to face the wall, heart pounding.

She hurried downstairs to the kitchen. Lt. Grotte was sitting at the table, eating breakfast while watching the shamans out the window – when she heard Moth on the steps, she said irritably, “They’ve been here since before sunrise, and when I told them to get off my property, they said they were here to see you. So I let them be. Didn’t want to drive your tinners away.”

“They’re…” Moth began shakily, “They’re shamans, not tinners.”

Lt. Grotte shrugged, not grasping the difference. “Got tin on them.”

The front door opened and Feldar came inside, holding a cup of coffee. Seeing Moth awake, he gestured her over to speak away from Lt. Grotte.

Moth’s stomach churning. “Why are they here?”

“You’re the ferryman’s wife,” said Feldar, sipping his coffee. “They want to speak with you, since you’re now the bride of their enemy.”

“Speak with me about what?” demanded Moth, but she knew Feldar didn’t have the answer. She clutched her mouth. “Oh god, what do I do?”

Feldar looked down at her. “Are you asking my advice?”

Moth ignored him and went to the window, and as she stared at the shamans, she felt certain she would need better clothes. She scrambled upstairs to her garret and threw around packaged clothes until she found one marked ‘spectacle and intimidation.’ She opened the package and pulled out the feather coat.

It was just as showy as she remembered – a mass of wool cut and embroidered into magpie wings – but this time she did not feel like it looked absurd, she felt it looked like a weapon. Included in the outfit was a pair of shoes – in a deep pearl-gray silk, with split toes. The note included – ‘wear both pairs of crescent horns.’

She dressed as quickly as she could and rushed through the kitchen. Lt. Grotte and caught a glimpse of her and hastily stood up, alarmed by her appearance, but said nothing as Moth swept out the door and onto the porch before she lost momentum and courage.

Moth stood on the porch of Poor Loom and looked at the shamans. Most of them sat, unmoving, on their blankets and watched her with overcast eyes, but one of them jumped eagerly to his feet, whispered excitedly to the others.

It wasn’t until Moth was out of the house that she saw there were other people besides the shamans – around two dozen people from Hiren were deeper in the grove, who had heard of this meeting and had come out of curiosity.

When Moth emerged from the house, a flock of magpies swept to Moth’s side and perched on the railings and trim – they were deathly quiet, watching the shamans with cold eyes, staring at the bird skulls that ornamented their clothing. There was even the magpie with a chip on his beak, who Moth had begun to call ‘Nock’.

Moth had no plan as she stood there. She did not know how to be intimidating. She didn’t want to be too far from Feldar and Lt. Grotte, who stood behind the door of the house, watching – so, she sat on a carved wooden chair on the porch, at the top of the steps, and gestured for them to approach her.

Some of the shamans were irritated that she stayed om the porch, and glanced at each other through their smoke, but the eager young shaman jumped forward and bowed low before Moth, touching a hand to his lip and then to the bottom step of the porch.

“Lady Korraban!” he exclaimed joyously, his magpie skulls clinking with every movement. “I’m delighted you were willing to speak with us.”

“Do you speak for the group, or yourself?” Moth asked curtly, looking past him at the other shamans – though many of them were older than him, he was by far the most ornately dressed.

Smiling brightly with wonderful teeth, he answered, “I would never presume to lift myself into such a position. I am only the one who told the others of your glorious return to Hiren, and so organized this pilgrimage to your threshold.”

Moth did not like how much he smiled, how the crinkles in the corner of his eyes and mouth were perpetually pinched, she did not like how bright his clothes were or the tin ornaments that clinked on them. He was shapeless beneath his many layers of red and blue.

As she took in his appearance, she felt a twinge of a memory. “Are you Balwin Okat?”

If it was possible, his smile grew larger, large enough to split his head in half like a wooden puppet. He bowed again. “Milady, I am honored that my name is known to you, and by extension, I hope, my lord Correb.”

Moth remembered him. He had come twice to see Clement, over a decade ago – at the time he was a young man, popular with people, and looking to raise himself up in Hiren as a leader and advisor, so sought out Clement to help him establish his name.

Clement had advised him to become a man of worth before he thought to lead anyone.

Balwin had not appreciated this and never sought his council a third time. It was not long after that Balwin began to seek the council of shamans and quickly fell into their practices. In this way, he did become a leader and advisor in Hiren,

growing more influential the longer the fog and the burns went on, and the longer Correb was silent.

On a petty level, Moth despised him because his nickname was Win.

“Why are you here?” Moth demanded. The magpies around her, hearing her tone, ruffled up their feathers and chittered at Win.

Win held his ground and said, “I’ve longed all my life to see Lord Correb, but I understand he is too ill to speak with anyone. The joy I felt cannot be expressed when you returned as his bride, his sanoket, his ambassador! Finally, a voice to reach the ear of the ferrier.”

Moth grew hot. “You shamans spend your lives running from our ferrier, hiding in smoke and dreams to avoid being found. Why would you want to see him?”

Win, hurt by her words, said earnestly, “Please, I understand how it has been for centuries, for ages, between ferriers and shamans. I am not looking to enrage our ferrier, I wish to reconcile! I have been working tirelessly with the shamans to forgive our ferrier and seek his good graces, not to oppose him, not to work against him – but to work alongside him. I confess, most shamans are too suspicious of the idea and are too bitter against Lord Correb to consider forgiveness, but I wish to enter an age of peace between us.”

Moth reeled from his statement. She couldn’t understand.

Stepping back from the porch, Win gave a short whistle, and a bird flew out of the grove that landed on his shoulder. He scratched the bird’s forehead and gave it some seeds.

The bird was a magpie, and it gently nibbled Win’s cheek.

“I tend to the magpies,” said Win. “I build them houses and raise them up from hatchlings as a sign of goodwill from me to Lord Correb. I hoped they would deliver my messages and deeds to him.”

Moth was speechless, until she saw the magpie skulls hanging from his belt. She said, gesturing at them, “But you still kill his sacred birds?”

Win hesitated but stood up straight and met her eyes. “Yes. I still need their blood for the power it provides – but I do not do it for myself, I do it for Hiren. Hiren! Which has been without its ferryman for so long, it’s grown lost and directionless, looking for a comforter. That is all a shaman is to be – one who comforts mourners. I have been here to comfort a parent who lost a child, to give them visions of that child, to help guide that child into the waters for the ferryman. Never once have I taken a soul for myself, despite the powers it could bring – because I love Hiren, and I want what’s best for them.” Win fell silent, his eyes began to water, but he clenched his fist and said hoarsely, “so I must take the magpies blood, and I am sorry for it. But I would do anything for Hiren – Lord Correb will forgive me, he must understand that his absence has caused desperate choices.”

As he spoke, Moth’s eyed the shamans that’s stood in the grove that allowed Win to be their spokesperson. Some were nodding along with his speech, while others – who were invited along but not convinced – only listened sourly and waited for her response.

“How many, Mr. Okat, share your opinion – that shamans should reconcile with and serve Lord Correb?” Moth asked.

“I would say about twenty of us,” Win answered gravely. “How I wish it were all! But we’ve been making progress within Okatto – we’ve been accepted into many homes and meetings with the farmers. Peace and reconciliation is already occurring, they no longer fear us, they now turn to us for comfort. Those of us who have this philosophy are trying to convince our fellow shamans, but it is slow work.” Win glanced over his shoulder at some of the shamans who were there, refusing to get up from their place by the incense. “But you must understand that they are scared to

come down from their forest stands and enter the towns and villages, for fear of being driven out, or killed. I will be patient with them.”

“I heard one shaman impersonated me,” said Moth.

Embarrassed, Win said quickly, “I advised her over and over not to attempt something so heinous as that, but in the end, she was found out.”

Moth was sick of Win and his syrupy voice. “We’ve talked long enough. What do you want from me?”

Bowing his head humbly, he said, “Simply this – the shamans of Hiren want to serve the ferryman – will you partner with us? I believe you will need our help to be established as Lord Correb’s bride. There is already a great deal of talk about whether they should accept you or not – we can convince them, with dream walking and council. Let us help you – appoint a group of us to go out and proclaim your identity through Hiren.”

The offer was heavy on Moth.

They could. She thought tiredly. They would do it – they have the influence. Within the week, Hiren would be convinced she was the ferryman’s bride.

But it wasn’t worth the alliance – nothing was worth partnering with so transparent a politician.

“You are asking for reconciliation,” said Moth, slowly, clearly, to the group of shamans in the grove, “in the same way a fox is interested in reconciling with the guard dog who stands in front of the henhouse. You do not love Hiren; you love the money in the pockets of the farmers. You charge the mourners for your visions and your dream walking. And because you hunger after the storehouses of Hiren, I will never reconcile with you – Lord Correb will never reconcile with you.”

Moth stood up and turned to enter Poor Loom.

“Milady,” began Win, wheedlingly, but he stopped when Feldar stepped out onto the porch and leaned on the railings, looking down a cigarette at him.

“You’ve made an alliance with Feldar Tine?” shouted Win, every trace of a smile vanished from his face, the syrup entirely gone from his voice.

Feldar passed his cigarette to Lt. Grotte, who joined him on the porch. Feldar looked around the grove at the shamans and said, “We aren’t a hotel. Clear out of the grove, or we’ll give the magpies back the blood you owe them.”

*

Moth sat shakily in the kitchen, picking at a cold breakfast and suckling on greasy coffee.

Feldar leaned against the wall, writing in a journal. Occasionally, he’d glance up from what he was writing towards Moth – but he left her alone for several minutes to recover.

He said eventually, breaking the silence, “Win Okat has a foothold in town. He’s determined to make a good name for shamans, and at least among his faction, he’s succeeding. My aunt has invited him as a guest of honor for many of her celebrations, and he’s been asked to dine with sentry commanders when they visit.”

Moth stared angrily at him. “Why do I care?”

Closing his book, Feldar crossed the room and sat down with her at the table. “Refusing him so publicly was a poor decision.”

“I –” Moth sputtered, her face heating up. “I would never–”

“I’m not suggesting you work with him,” Feldar said. “I would’ve suggested you made him believe you’ll consider it. It’s too late now – there’s no return from how you handled it – but in future, don’t reveal to your opponents that you’re against them until it’s necessary.”

“How I handled it?” exclaimed Moth. “You’re the one who threatened them!”

Feldar nodded. His voice never raised. “You decided the path and I followed you. I’m allying myself with you for the sake of Hiren – I’ll show people we’re unified. However, I’m not interested in allying myself with a series of mistakes.”

Moth opened her mouth, but no words came out as she quivered with rage. Finally she hissed, “And how will I not make mistakes?”

“Take my council before you make a decision.”

“Of all people, why should I take your council?”

“For the same reason I take the council of others – they know more than me. It’s why I seek out Clem’s council.” Feldar leaned back in his chair, watching all the anger drain from Moth at the mention of her grandfather. Her head sunk into her hands. “Pride will hamstring any leader – and any leader who takes no council is already toppled. Listen to my advice Mere. You may know the bugs and trees of Hiren better than I do, but I know its people.”

Moth tiredly rubbed her face – but after a minute she gave a small, reluctant nod.

“If you’d asked my advice, I would’ve told you what I know. Win wants the approval of Clement more than anything – Clement’s approval stands between him and Rodin Tunhofe’s approval. Tunhofe’s approval would gain the approval of most of the woodcutters. The woodcutters are one of the largest groups of people in Hiren that despise the shamans, as they often come across their sacrifices, treestands, and cantrips. Woodcutters know shamans for what they are – cruel and savage.”

Amazed, Moth looked up at Feldar. She had no idea.

“And your approval, could possibly convince Clement,” said Feldar. “That is why Win is slavering to help you. He would do anything. Had you only let him think you might consider it, a great deal could’ve been gotten from that pathetic man. Now, out of spite, he’s going to oppose you – your hasty answer to Win has a cost.”

*

Moth had all day to make herself sick over her mistake.

There was little to do, and it was not good for her mind to be idle – she filled and refilled the water in the maghouses, scrounging through the house for small, abandoned buttons and marbles to gift them, which did nothing to distract her mind.

She couldn’t even be sure it was a mistake – she was not sure if she trusted Feldar’s council, yet she couldn’t deny he had much more information about Hiren than she did. She sat in the backyard and futilely brooded over her thoughts like a hen with empty eggs.

When the day was nearing an end, and the lowering sun lit up the top of the grove in pink and orange, Moth headed slowly towards the house.

She heard shouting.

Moth crept towards the noise, around the side of the house to the front porch. Lt. Grotte stood in the doorway, shouting at a man – the man howled back with an equal amount of anger and volume.

The man was stout but mightily broad, built like a wall, his healed-broken jaw set on edge, and his one, fire-blue eye glowing against dark skin.

Moth knew him at once. Korho Copekivi. A leader in Hiren, he had survived terribly under the fogs and burns, having lost the hearing and eyesight on his left side to a fog burst, which also took the life of his first wife and son. He held onto his land farm through sheer stubbornness and had become a great pain to the sentries. Though friends with Moth’s parents, he disagreed with them on trying to keep peace.

If there was going to be a tin cry in Hiren, everyone knew it would be led by Korho, and it looked like it was starting on the porch of Poor Loom between him and Lt. Grotte.

“Feldar!” bellowed Korho, “Come get your asskack.”

Lt. Grotte snarled. “You come in here like a dog pissing all over my house, and want me to leave?”

“Your house? This belongs to one of the oldest families in Hiren, before you stole it.”

“These freaks were your friends?” demanded Lt. Grotte. “Come in and take this jar of teeth back to them.”

The door finally burst open and Feldar emerged, angrily woken up from sleep. “Why the hell is there so much noise?” he rasped, and then saw Korho. “Ah good, you got my message. Come in.”

Lt. Grotte vibrated in anger as Korho shoved past her into the house. She paced out in the garden to smoke.

Moth did not feel like meeting with anyone – much less get caught between Lt. Grotte and Korho’s arguing.

She hung undecidedly around the porch, but after a few minutes she heard their voices wafting from the open kitchen window.

“So Mere Hevwed is alive – and you’re sure she’s the real one, not some shaman?”

“She drank the tin water,” answered Feldar.

“And you trust her? God knows I love Norwin and Vade, but they don’t have a reign on their brood – their daughter yoked herself to an Ede.”

“I’m helping her. I want you to help her as well.”

“Pin my name to this? She’s staying at a sentry’s house!”

“She’s not interested in a tin cry.”

“Well, I am.”

“Today? Now? Half of Hiren is dragging their fogged limbs around, and you want them to wage a battle, while Captain Rill is pulling up reinforcements right now because of Mere?”

Korho didn’t answer.

“I’m not interested in a tin cry – not yet, not with Hiren so broken. We wouldn’t survive. I’m interested in unifying under hope, and Mere could give that to them–”

“The sunstones!” interrupted Korho, scoffing. “Good god, Feldar, I feel like a magpie in a hoop trap – pour all my sunstones into Mere Hevwed’s treasury? Trust her with that?”

Moth, frustrated and unwilling to remain silent any longer, crossed the porch and entered the house. Feldar and Korho turned in their seats to stare at her.

Flustered, she said, “I…I overheard.”

“Good! I don’t have to repeat myself then,” shouted Korho. He always talked too loudly, and it was worse indoors. “Feldar says I should trust you – why? Go on and answer girl; why should I give you my money?”

Moth wasn’t used to being shouted at, and she found it hard to answer as her heart rattled. “I don’t–”

“Don’t have an answer?”

“I don’t want your money!” yelled Moth, her voice high and squeaking. “I want any sunstones you can spare for the burials. I have almost enough, but we need more to make up any gaps.”

Korho narrowed his eyes. “How many sunstones do you have?”

“Several bags.”

“Show me.”

Moth stuttered, “I…I’ve hid them.”

Korho sneered. “Oh, they’re invisible?”

“Aye, come now, Korho.” Feldar chuckled. “That’s the smartest thing she’s said yet – I wouldn’t trust any Copekivi with my hidden wealth, either.”

Feldar seemed to knock over all the forward motion Korho had. He eyed Feldar grimly and said, “So you are on her side, eh?”

“For Hiren.”

Korho shook his head.

Moth was going to speak when she heard a horse outside. She glanced out the window in the darkening twilight and was dreading more company until she saw dimly the white patches of Aggo’s coat.

Nehem was back.

She glanced guiltily at Korho. He really will think it’s a conspiracy with my brother here. But there was nothing she could do, so she stepped out towards Aggo to help unload.

Nehem saw Moth and said urgently, “Mere, wait.”

Moth glanced curiously at him, and then saw another horse. The white gelding called Nest that Moth had borrowed so long ago.

“Who–” Moth began, when the cloaked and shawled rider jumped down.

Her mother.

Vade Hevwed grabbed Moth’s stunned face between her hands, and with desperate, tear-filled eyes searched her features.

Without a word, she kissed Moth, pushed a letter into her hand, and rode Nest off into the darkness.

The earth whirled and Moth couldn’t move. She looked dizzily down at her letter, up at Nehem’s face, who was now looking worriedly behind her.

Moth turned to see Korho and Feldar standing on the porch, watching.

“Lot of Hevweds here,” said Korho.

Feldar sighed and lit a cigarette. “Too many.”

Moth clutched her letter, walking in a haze up to her room.