The Ferryman - Book 1

Chapter 73:

A Report for Commander Waden

Moth started awake by the fireplace – burned low to only heat – and her book slid off her lap and clonked to the floor.

“Oh god,” said Moth feebly, her entire body stiff as the chair she’d slept in. She hobbled to her knees and laid on the ground to stretch out her neck and shoulders, groaning pathetically. Her head throbbed and her eyes were dry and puffy.

She’d probably gotten three hours of sleep, and those hours had been interrupted by plotless, alarming nightmares stirred up from the illustrations she’d read.

She didn’t have to stand up and look out the window to know farmers had already gathered outside. She heard them talking and chatting, as if it were a social gathering. One had begun playing a kantele.

Peeling herself off the ground, Moth stared at her weary reflection and tried to spruce herself up. She dressed, fixed her hair, and descended to the kitchen, where the warm smell of coffee greeted her.

She was beginning to – while not enjoy – appreciate the sentry coffee. Greasy and thick as a bootheel, a taste like rancid ash, Moth had grown fully dependent on it, and went straight to the fresh pot bubbling on the tilestove.

“Lady Korraban, good morning,” said Mr. Larris, who, in return for his stay overnight, had made breakfast for the house. He turned to hand her a plate and a cup and nearly dropped it when confronted with Moth’s haggard face. Without saying anything he added more maple syrup to her pancakes.

Unable to think clearly, Moth sat and ate, half asleep. Kulti was excitedly climbing onto the stovebed and jumping off, occasionally running to help his father with some tasks.

“Nehem is finding more rags for bandages,” said Larris conversationally, filling up Moth’s silence, “and Feldar already left for Korho’s farm.”

Moth was about to ask after Lt. Grotte, when the woman lumbered down the stairs, fully dressed in her uniform – which was never laundered correctly, Tully would be truly annoyed – and slammed down at the table.

She had a good night’s sleep and was in good humor, chatting energetically with Larris and Kulti and eating several plates of food in preparation for the day. “It’s nice to have a full house,” said Lt. Grotte cheerfully.

Everyone was loud to Moth, and she tried to focus on chewing and swallowing, when Lt. Grotte said, “Lord you look as dead as yesterday. Sleep did you no kindness.”

Not amused, Moth sipped her coffee.

“Oh yes, that reminds me.” Lt. Grotte snapped her fingers. “Meant to tell you yesterday when I got back. The outpost heard about what’s going on here, and I’ve vouched for you that it’s all peaceful, but the captain has been forced to come and survey what you’re doing to reassure his commander, so expect a visit. He’s horribly lazy, but not stupid, so don’t try and lie to him.”

Moth’s fingers tightened over her fork.

The front door opened and Nehem came in, carrying a bag of old sheets. He looked tired and the morning had barely begun. “We got seventy already waiting,” he said.

Not willing to let it dangle over her any longer, Moth finished her coffee and went outside – this time Lt. Grotte helped Nehem bring the table outside, and then she said goodbye and went to work.

Set-up was slower, but with Larris and Kulti’s help the table was quickly ordered and ready for work. Larris began organizing the crowd to watch Moth make the poultices, and they hovered over her to not miss a word of explanation.

Moth had barely begun when there was a commotion on the edge of the grove.

“Dirtguard!” someone jeered, and a farmer moved forward and shoved a sentry out of the clearing, saying, “You deserved this, don’t come sneaking in now.”

Nehem was there in a blink. With one hand he bodily picked up the other farmer and moved him aside, and then helped the sentry.

The sentry – perhaps about twenty – hobbled forward. His left hand and leg had been touched by the fog, and he used a shoddy, makeshift crutch to help him walk. The shove had sent him sprawling in the dirt, and half his face was caked in mud – he was wide-eyed and scared as Nehem grabbed his arm to support him, his sweaty, ginger curls clinging to his tawny skin.

“Nehem, don’t help him!” scolded another farmer, a woman. When Nehem dipped his head and didn’t answer her, she shouted at Moth, “Don’t help him! The dirt guards destroy Hiren and get fogged – its justice, it’s the only good thing the fog does. Lord Correb wouldn’t approve!”

Nehem, not knowing what else to do, brought the sentry over to Moth.

Moth pulled a chair over and helped the boy sit in it, trying to calm her jittering nerves as dozens of farmers stared murderously at him.

Clearing her throat, Moth said, “What’s your name?”

The boy had a crisp Magden accent, but his speech was a little slow and stilted. He fumbled over his words and stuttered, but said, “Uh, uh, Timo, ma’am.”

“When did this happen?” Moth asked.

“Not long, well, four months ago. And some days.”

“Is there anyone else at the outpost who’s been fogspotted?”

He nodded. He said, so quietly Moth had to lean forward to hear him, “Might be sent back for not being able to make up our time.”

“Sent back where?”

His mouth trembled. “Prison. Workers release program.”

Moth’s heart tightened. She took his hand and said, “Well, Timo, I’ll make you better, alright?”

He – bearing every emotion openly on his face – teared up and nodded.

Moth and Nehem made the poultice and began helping him, and bitter murmurs rippled through the crowd. The woman who had scolded Moth and Nehem turned immediately and left.

“That is no bride of a Ferrier!” She bellowed as she went. “Helping the people who are burning us to the ground do it with healthy bodies! She should make them torches while she’s at it!”

She would’ve talked on more, but the magpies began screeching at her and she rushed out of the grove.

Timo was soon wrapped up in poultices like a present. Moth helped him to his feet, and when he realized he could put weight on his leg and bend his arm, he tilted his head back and bawled like a child, turning around and hugging Moth tightly, soaking her shoulder in snot and tears.

“Timo,” said Moth, patting his cheek. “Do you think you can remake this recipe?”

Timo stared at her.

Sighing, she said, “Well, can you tell the other sentries who are fogspotted to come here tomorrow? I’ll help them.”

Timo grinned and nodded. He took his crutch and gave it to Moth, then ran off happily back to his outpost.

“Well,” began someone snidely from the crowd, “are we done waiting? Are you going to finish showing us the recipe?”

Moth barely heard the remark as she looked down at the crutch. She placed it gently next to the table and gestured the farmers to come closer. “Alright, I’ll start over. Begin with boiled water.”

The poultices and bandaging progressed much like yesterday, though soon Nehem, Larris, and Moth got into a rhythm, and they were able to help more people per hour.

Moth began to hope it wouldn’t be another terribly long workday, when carts pulled by oxen arrived, one by one, filled to the brim with fogged farmers.

Moth thought she knew most of the families in Hiren, but she recognized none of the faces who dragged themselves and each other off the carts and came tottering down to them for aid.

Overwhelmed, Moth focused on the people at hand who needed help before she began counting the heads of who were waiting.

Moth, Nehem, and Mr. Larris wrapped up a dozen farmers with poultices and they stood up in amazement, stretching arms, legs, and fingers with shock and excitement.

“The recipe is easy, you can teach it to anyone,” said Moth.

“You really did come from the marches,” exclaimed a young woman, marveling at her hand. “This is straight from Lord Correb.”

They all nodded in agreement.

Moth cleared her throat and said, “If any of you would like to help, we could use some more volunteers to apply poultices to the people who were just brought in.”

The twelve farmers explained that they had farms and work to attend to, but if they found a spare moment they would return. Moth waved to them as they left and held back a frustrated groan.

She turned tiredly to the newcomers and gestured them over – pleased they had waited quietly. As she tended to them and chatted, she discovered the newcomers were not from Hiren.

Most had come from Lad, others Aldur. Their fog problem was not nearly as bad as in Hiren, but for the few who had been touched, there was no one to help them. Yet – even in another region a day away – word had spread like lightning that someone knew a treatment.

“You helped my sister yesterday morning – she lives here with her family. After your help, she rode all day to me in Aldur and told me to bring as many wounded by the fog as I could,” said a man with a gap tooth, who’s knee had gotten touched. He nodded towards the wagon he had brought, pulled by oxen. “I fit two dozen on that. It’s difficult in Aldur for farmers to move in large groups because of all our tin cries, but the dirt guard weren’t concerned when they saw we were fogged – not a threat I suppose.”

As the day went on, more wagons from Aldur and Lad arrived. Moth implored them, when they got back to their regions, to teach all the local healers how to make the poultices. They promised they would. They wrote the recipe down urgently, talking of the family members who it would help.

Nehem brought out the extra sheets, and they began tearing them up into bandages. As Moth ripped and tore them up, a man stood at her elbow to watch.

After a moment he grunted and grabbed some supplies off the table and went to sit down under a pine tree.

Moth, irritated, followed him and asked through clenched teeth, “Do you need some help?”

The man glanced up at her through hairy eyebrows. Moth recognized the stubborn, angry twist of his features – a Copekivi. This was Korho’s relative, another blacksmith, named Lauri.

He was in his late sixties, what was left of his hair was neatly braided with beautiful ornaments. He made a shooing gesture to Moth and said, “Unless you want to pay for the show you can skip off.” So saying, he removed his skirts, shirt, and shawl.

Moth, was terrified he would strip down to nothing, but he finally sat down on a borrowed stool and examined his own fogged forearm. He was determined to do it by himself and ignored Moth as he put on the bandage awkwardly with one hand, smearing the poultice on little by little as he went.

He wasn’t halfway done when a shadow fell over him and the captain of the sentries stood nearby, in his crimson red uniform, complete with gold trim and brooch, tall shiny hat, and fur. The whole uniform seemed to weigh him down, as he stooped under it.

“What a spot,” said the captain mildly. “Poor bastard. Cigarette?”

The captain was smoking one himself, but pulled out another and handed it to Lauri Copekivi, who stared with murderous rage at the sentry.

“Drink piss,” said Lauri.

A person in a garment talking to a person Description automatically generated

“That’s about the quality of wine we have here,” said Captain Rill, nonplussed, and lit the offered cigarette from his own one and threw the nub into the forest. He turned to Mere. “Well, show me around.”

Moth stared at her cousin Guyrede Rill, but mutely turned on her heel and led him to her workstation.

He looked around the grove, with his droopy, sleepy eyes, which he eventually used to survey her. “I must say, I thought it was going to be some other Mere.”

“When I heard Captain Rill,” replied Moth somberly, “I hoped it was someone else.”

“God that would be great.” He rubbed his face and took off his tall, sculpted helmet to tuck it under his arm. He yawned, and Moth could smell alcohol. “So, tell me my dear, are you hosting an insurrection? Is your plan to burn down the outpost?”

Moth covered her nose from the fumes. “No, I’m not. And Guyrede – Captain Rill – it’s barely past noon, have you even had breakfast?”

“I don’t eat right when I wake up,” he said, scratching at his beard and watching the groups of farmers, many of whom were looking at him with anger or fear. “Show me the poultice.”

Moth showed him how the poultices were made, step by step, and bound up a young woman’s foot that had been touched by fog, enabling her to be mobile again for the first time in years.

The demonstration didn’t seem to move Guyrede – in fact he barely seemed to be paying attention. After a minute or two, absently watching the woman cry, he turned and walked towards a group of farmers.

That group of farmers had shown up near the start of the day – they didn’t have fogspots, and they hadn’t brought anyone hurt. They only stood on the edge of the grove and muttered amongst themselves, occasionally talking to some of the farmers who had arrived from Aldur and Lad.

Moth had asked them if they would help, but they had all declined coldly.

Guyrede shambled up to them, leaning on a tree, and spoke with them.

They all looked at each other. A man spoke up loudly to Guyrede – though Moth didn’t catch what he said – and Guyrede shrugged and said something back.

Whatever was said, the group of farmers hastily disbanded.

Guyrede returned to Moth’s table, taking out a notebook and writing.

Nervously, Moth asked, “What was that about?”

“Oh? You don’t know?” He waited for her reaction, and then answered, “You are gathering a large group of discontented people to one location.”

“They are gathering here because they need help!”

Guyrede impatiently shushed her. “Your goal is to help people; how lovely, how refreshing, keep at it my dear – however, you can’t control what their goals are,” he said, gesturing at the group of young farmers who were leaving. “They are looking for other discontent people, and they are finding them all neatly gathered up here. Their goal is revolution.”

“Its…” Moth stuttered, now looking at the groups of farmers in alarm. She fought for the right words as Guyrede raised his eyebrows. “I’m just making poultices, I don’t want them to gather here for…for a tin cry.”

“So, you’re going to break them up when they start gathering here to make recruits? You’re going to tell them to leave?”

Moth didn’t want to do that either – she knew how that would look to the farmers, as if she had sided with the sentries.

“So, I must ask one more time,” said Guyrede, studying her with soft brown eyes – the exact color and saturation of Clement’s eyes. “Are you hosting an insurrection?”

When Moth could find no answer, he sighed.

“Mere, if I keep finding these sorts of tinners gathering here, I’m going to have to write it in my report and Commander Waden will be here in a blink. You won’t enjoy dealing with him.”

Moth thought rapidly, staring down at her table of poultices. Then, as if by a vision, she had an idea.

She looked up at her cousin and smiled. “Well, what if you did me a favor?”

Guyrede squinted. “Hm?”

“Make ten or so sentries come here to supervise, then,” said Moth, her tone as sweet as possible. “Have them help with the poultices. Have them serve the farmers. It’ll strengthen relations between farmers and sentries, and their presence will deter farmers from gathering here who want to start a tin cry. Then you won’t have to deal with Commander Waden coming up to Okatto.”

Guyrede looked thrown off balance. He took a chair nearby Moth and sat in it, still holding his helmet. “You’re asking me to waste the Agricultural Sentries resources…to be nurses?”

“You’ve been training new recruits because Commander Waden’s grown nervous, right?” asked Moth.

Guyrede didn’t answer but gave a reluctant nod.

“So you’re already busy with training – I’m sure you don’t want Commander Waden here either. That’s a lot on your plate, as the captain. Besides, I know Commander Waden is especially interested in public relations, he’s the one who said preventing a tin cry is better than stopping one. Sparing ten sentries? I’m sure you can find a way.”

Guyrede wrinkled his nose. “Lord, you got greasy fast. Put in a position of influence and you’re already playing at the flesh trade of diplomacy.”

Moth smiled at her cousin. “So you don’t want your boss to make a long tedious trip by cart to your door. All those bumpy country roads – he’ll be in a terrible mood before he even shows up.”

Guyrede pursed his lips and nodded.

“So, will you give me sentries? Is that a yes?”

“…Yes,” said Guyrede after a long pause. “I don’t want to deal with Waden, he could talk a viper into becoming a noose and hanging itself. However, I’ve no interest in sending you my best workers – you’ll get whatever idiot I can force to volunteer.”

Moth’s triumph deflated a little at his words. With Nehem, she could probably manage to make them not cause trouble – but it was unlikely they’d be of help, and she dreaded several more days of such intense work. She wasn’t sure how long she could endure.

She was broken from her thought when Captain Rill said, “Alright, sweet cousin, let me ask a few more questions and then I can go home.”

Moth continued to make poultices and hand them out to people, nodding for him to go ahead, and he flicked his notebook open, pencil poised. “So, mapmoss is crushed and made into a poultice that helps ease where people have been affected by the petratic miasma?”

“Yes.”

“But it does not cure it?”

“That’s right. It eases the hardening effects and allows you more mobility for a few hours.”

“And you were sacrificed in the sinkhole north of Okatto – the plate?”

Moth froze.

“Not…sacrificed,” she faltered. “We have offerings and that year – we don’t ever give people – that year I convinced them to offer me.”

“Hm. And that event was a marriage to Korraban’s ferrier, Correb, yes?”

Her heart pounded. “Yes.”

“And, according to you, you met the ferryman, and are now assuring the farmers here that he is alive. Would you say that’s correct?”

Should I lie? Moth thought frantically, sweat trickling down her neck. This will go to the Commander. Would it reach King Roan?

“Mere?” prodded Guyrede, waiting to write down her statement.

“Yes,” said Moth, choking the words out. “I met Lord Correb, the ferrier of Korraban. He is alive – we are married, and I have come to help Hiren and represent him and the marches.”

Guyrede finished writing that down and nodded to her sleepily. “Thank you, Mere. This’ll be a concise report.”