The Ferryman - Book 1

Chapter 7:

Dandelion Kiss

Mrs. Tunhofe gently patted Moth’s shoulder. “Wake up, Mere, we’re here.”

Moth blinked and rubbed at her eyes. She looked up into Mrs. Tunhofe’s grooved face, and realized she was leaning against her.

Bolting up, Moth smoothed her hair and adjusted her blouse, stuttering, “Oh, we’re here?”

“You slept sounder than a babe, Mere; I’m glad. Can’t say you’ll be comfortable on this metal coffin, it’s only ever too hot or too cold.”

The wagon rattled down its final feet of road and groaned to a stop.

Moth stared.

The train rose up from the middle of the field like some centipedal beast, all glistening black and red metal with yellow stripes, howling out billows of smoke from its chimney. Crew members and firemen shouted back and forth to each other, but even their sound was drowned out by the business of the passengers swarming the station and getting their luggage off or onto the train, screaming at the crew as they did.

Moth was frozen in place, unable to blink as she took in the sight of the train. She grew embarrassed, feeling like a country child, and tried not to lock eyes with the train again as she looped her arms through her luggage and climbed down.

Rodin helped Moth and Mrs. Tunhofe carry it onto the platform, grinning as he did so. “Isn’t it mighty? Takes my breath away.”

“It’s convenient, but that’s all the applaud I’ll give.” Mrs. Tunhofe nudged Moth. “It loses its appeal when you have to ride it up once every year, eh?”

“I never went with my parents, I always stayed back with Nehem. He took care of the farm and I took care of Grandpa.”

“Well, an hour in you’ll be sick of it. Come now, how long ‘til they let us board? I don’t want to stand forever.” Mrs. Tunhofe stacked her luggage and sat on it with her sturdy legs planted on the boards of the platform, taking out her pipe in preparation of the wait.

Rodin kissed his mother and gave Moth a hug, saying, “Pris asked that you write. I’m sure Mrs. Hevwed asked as well, and Ama, and Mr. Clem, but if you could write her a stanza or two, every other season, it’d be a great favor to me.”

“I’ll write, don’t worry.” Moth kissed his bearded cheek.

Rodin waved goodbye, leading his long-suffering horse down the road to a watering hole.

It was not long after that the crew members opened the doors to allow the passengers aboard. There was a rush of people clattering to get in, but Mrs. Tunhofe puffed on her pipe and waited until most had boarded, before hefting herself up and grabbing a passing boy by his shoulder.

“You there, what’s your name?”

The boy was about seventeen, and he said irritably, “Loren.” He shrugged off Mrs. Tunhofe’s knotted hands but did a double take when he saw Moth. He coughed and straightened his back, saying, “Loren Wace.”

“Mr. Wace, would you help us with our luggage?”

Loren Wace was happy to heave up Moth’s heaviest luggage, and he kindly insisted on taking her carpet bag as well, following behind them both with long strides, saying, “Right, where to?”

Mrs. Tunhofe led the way aboard the cramped and noisy train, digging around the different cars for two seats. As she hunted she chatted with Loren.

“Wace is it? Can’t say I know the family. Are you from Hiren, or another region?”

“Fellered,” said Loren irritably. “We’re not farmers – well not anymore,” he stopped himself, blushed, and said, “We’re shopkeepers, and we own a good amount of land – known for our horses.”

“In Magden City?”

Sniffing, Loren said, “Near enough.”

“Oh?” Mrs. Tunhofe smirked. “Always from Fellered?”

“I am, but my grandpa was from Urimass County, in some little town.” Loren smiled at Moth as they finally found a bench to sit at. He hefted their luggage into the overhead railing and posed over her. “Are you from Hiren, Miss?”

“Yes, I was born here, but I’m moving to Magden.”

“Couldn’t wait to escape the tinners?” laughed Loren.

Moth knew the term. Tourists called the superstitious farmers who still practiced offerings as ‘tinners’ – most farmers in Hiren had toecaps of tin, sometimes made from flattened thimbles. She gave him a small smile and said, poking out her boot so the metal glinted dull yellow, “I’m a tinner, Mr. Wace.”

His face screwed up in embarrasment, and he tried to form a sentence. Mrs. Tunhofe shooed him away, saying, “We take no offense, Mr. Wace, but perhaps you should return to your parents.”

After Loren slouched away, his neck red as a sunset, Mrs. Tunhofe wriggled into her seat to make herself comfortable and said, “We should eat now, before the train gets in motion and upsets the whole picnic.”

Moth watched her burrow into her carpet bag and emerge with a full lunch. Bread was handed to her – though it was cold, it was still fragrant from being baked

that morning. A wedge of nettle cheese was handed out next, and then an old cookie tin full of dried fruits, and cured venison ham wrapped in butcher paper.

“Bread!” exclaimed Moth, and she lowered her voice as if it were a secret. “I haven’t had a decent loaf in months.”

“Thank Pris. She rations our wheat like a mathematician.”

“She’s spoiling you with this.”

“Oh, it wasn’t a thought towards me,” Mrs. Tunhofe said.

They split the bread and gave hearty thanks, realizing at once how hungry the journey had made them. They assembled cured venison and nettle cheese sandwiches, swallowing it down with leftover coffee, which was lukewarm by now but strong and bitter.

Moth pulled out a napkin to clean the grease of the cured meat from her chin. She wished Pris was there so she could thank her for the meal, and thought she should remember to mention it when she wrote her first letter. Moth pulled out her canteen, with barely a drink of water left and raised it to her mouth; around the rim was ash, and when she drank, it tasted like a leftover fire.

Shaken, Moth wiped her mouth, clutching her fingers over the heel of bread. “You’ll be helping Mr. Tine, won’t you?”

“He’s Hiren, I will do anything I can for him and his,” Mrs. Tunhofe said. “Rodin will know what to do when he gets back, and you know Pris; she’ll walk there with Camb if she has to, to comfort the family. It is a sorry thing, isn’t it? Glad you’re getting out of Hiren’s messes, eh.”

Moth stared at her shoes. She pressed her bread back into the handkerchief it was wrapped in and was about to speak when a loud whistle split their ears, and a ticket inspector busily stomped down the aisle saying “Tickets, tickets, please, thank you, hurry now we should be going.”

Moth and Mrs. Tunhofe handed him their tickets and he continued his way down the line, as everyone rustled through their pockets and bags, the train got noisy and hot – several crew members opened the overhead windows to allow in fresh air.

In a handful of minutes, the doors were closed and the enormous engine began to groan. Moth clutched onto her seat and stared dead ahead as the whole train car lurched, rumbled like thunder, and began to move.

It was like a travelling house. Moth felt giddy, seeing a perfectly normal, stationary window and seat, while outside the fields moved by; first as a crawl, but soon sprinting past the window. She could barely make out a farm, or a clump of trees, or a platelayers’ hut, before it burst away like a startled bird.

Mrs. Tunhofe groaned and pulled her cap down over her eyes. “I’m going to try and sleep through this, but wake me up if you need me.”

The motion didn’t bother Moth – it was like riding a horse full speed. She tried to calm down, but she felt a thrill seeing the movement and bustle, the liveliness of everything around her, and she realized for the first time that she was leaving Hiren for Magden and would be seeing Tully after seven long years.

Moth wanted to feel the wind on her face as they went. She could see people going between the passenger cars, across a metal bridge with railing. She stood up and immediately had to hold onto her seat to stay upright, feeling the motion through her body. She took a step forward, finding her balance, and made her way down the aisle to the door, slid it open just enough so she could slip through, and was out on the bridge.

It was only a few feet deep, but Moth seized onto the rusted handrail. The wind rammed itself against her tightly braided hair, and she turned her head to face it and breathed in deep, the sting of it tingling her face.

The air was heady with ripening fields, dense with pollen and the smell of sunlight-baked earth. There had not been much rain yet that year, so the earth smelled hot and dry.

Moth knew they must have crossed out of Hiren. She closed her eyes to remember the map of the regions of Korraban hung on the wall of Grandpa Clem’s study. North would be Aldur, further north Tanwuce, then Fellered, where Magden City sat. Eyes peeled, Moth searched at the countryside going by; she had never seen anywhere but Hiren, so she looked to find any differences between the two regions.

Aldur was much flatter than the buckling terrain of Hiren. Farming there must be easier, Moth realized, then having to cut terraces out of the steeper hills. She pulled her journal from her pocket belt and did a rough sketch of the countryside – a hurried sketch, as the wind wanted to rip the paper loose from the spine.

The door between the two train cars opened. Moth closed her book and pressed up to the edge of the railing as a woman squeezed by with her child.

The woman didn’t close the door she all the way, so Moth went to shut it and glanced into the other train car. She was so curious about everyone on the train – who were they? They were all going in the same direction, they were similar, and yet all strangers to her. She wished she could eavesdrop on all of them, but she only snuck a glance into the train car at the different people.

Some were farmers; poor, with their metal capped shoes. Others were family travelling to visit relatives. A few were unaccompanied, possibly travelling for work, or looking for work, depending on how new their jackets were.

She spotted Loren Wace in the furthest back seat, with his parents, younger brother, and grandfather. Loren was looking out the window as his grandpa was talking to him.

Wace’s Grandpa stood up to stretch, and set his hand on the edge of a seat.

Moth breath caught in her throat.

His hands were spotted and speckled white against his skin. Moth followed the markings up his arm and saw his face; it was also marked with the same snowy patches.

He must be in so much pain, Moth thought, feeling a lump in her throat, but as she watched him there was no signs he was in discomfort. His hands bent and curled easily, and his face pulled into a grin when his grandson said something to him.

Moth opened the door and entered his train car. She hovered in the doorway, breathless, and watched him walk down the aisle.

The old man, with curly gray hair and bright brown eyes, glanced at her and nodded, but when he saw her expression he lowered his voice and said, concerned, “Miss, are you alright? Do you need help with something?”

Moth raised her left hand to show him her markings, saying, “I’m sorry I just…I’ve not seen anyone with…”

He grinned at her. “Well isn’t that pretty. We match, ey?”

Moth pressed her mouth together, steadying herself. “How do you bend your hand? How did you fix the arthritis?”

“The…?” He took another look at her hand and said, “May I?”

She nodded, and he took her hand in his, examining her curled fingers frozen in motion. His hands did not have the same problem, outside of the usual stiffness of an elderly man. He shook his head, saying, “I don’t think the color and the arthritis are connected, miss.”

“They absolutely are, they have to be,” said Moth. “After the fog hit me, it turned white and froze like this.”

His eyes widened. “You were hit by the fog?” He heaved a deep breath and looked at her again. “You must be from Hiren – I’ve been hearing news often from my nephew who lives there.” He patted her shoulder. “I’ve had these marks since I was about 11. I’m from Urimass. It’s so common we call them dandelion kisses. I’d say half of us had these markings, growing up.”

Moth looked at her hand, and then his. “Why?”

“I’m not sure. Well,” he chuckled, “it was said the ferryman did it – or I should say, our ferryman Urima. He was said to blow on the wind and send out dandelion thistles, and where they landed on children, they would nestle in and turn them white. Same was said about freckles, I think.”

Korraban’s ferryman – Correb – had no such stories about him.

Moth shivered and rubbed the back of her hand. “Well, thank you. Sorry to bother you.”

“It’s alright, I don’t mind. Do you want to sit down? Are you alone on this ride?”

“I’m with my friend. Thank you, I’ll be fine.” Moth gave a hasty smile and hurried back to her train car.

Mrs. Tunhofe was asleep when Moth sat down next to her. She kept staring at her hand, seeing the gradience from dark skin to white skin, like a clinging frost. She could not understand. She leaned back in her seat to stare out the window at the fields.

She wondered if Urimass was having the same problem as Korraban.