The Ferryman - Book 1

Chapter 75:

“This has made us popular with no one.”

When Moth woke up, the first thing she saw was Nokk, nestled up to her face. He chirruped when he saw her awake, in the lowlight of an early morning.

“I slept,” Moth told him breathlessly.

Amazed, she slid out of bed and got ready for the day. Having a night of sleep was astonishing – she felt full of hope again. She realized how much of her despair was fed by exhaustion. She stared around her room full of magpies – some sleeping, some awake and noisily greeting each other with the dawn – and said to them, “Thank you!”

“Thank you!” they shouted back, then at each other, repeating the sound in their clever mouths.

Though the thought of dragging her work-shriveled bones through another twelve hours of labor was daunting, she set her jaw and looked at her reflection. You are a Hevwed. You can shoulder this.

Then she remembered the sentries she’d have to supervise today and faltered. She encouraged herself that Lt. Grotte would be around, able to intervene if things became unmanageable.

Moth sent the magpies out of her room and went to the kitchen.

The haze of a spring dawn was just beginning to touch the windows, casting a shallow light into the hallway, down the stairs, where it rested in the kitchen. Moth tiptoed in, catching Nehem packing his small amount of clothes into a bag.

“Should I make you breakfast before you go?” asked Moth.

He shook his head. “I’ll meet with Ira and Ama at the farm, we’ll have breakfast there.”

Moth watched her oldest sibling standing in the soft golden light. She’d never known life without him – he had always been there, always been tall and mature from the time she was born.

“Be careful,” whispered Moth, her voice catching.

Nehem looked startled. He reached out and pulled Moth into a hug – he hugged like her father – and said, “We’ll be alright. You’re what’s important now. Take care of yourself, for Hiren – for us.”

Nehem kissed Moth’s forehead and left Poor Loom with Aggo.

It was Sunday. He had six days to bring her the sunstones before the next Sunday. It made her sick to think about, so she busied herself in the kitchen, beginning to make porridge and coffee, yet her mind kept wandering to that humble, old springhouse that hid the salvation of Hiren.

Moth went to get a log to start a fire in the oven, but as she did she sniffed worriedly – she smelled smoke. It wasn’t strong, but the odor was unmistakable, and Moth searched around worriedly for a forgotten candle, until she realized the smell was coming from the sink.

Lt. Grotte had thrown her uniform’s coat in the sink, and it reeked of smoke – the edge of the cape was singed and black.

Moth realized it was the time for burns, and her mind went to Correb – vividly she saw his ember-riddled body. She unconsciously covered her mouth and turned shakily away from the coat.

Footsteps pounded overhead and she jumped, before she realized it was Lt. Grotte waking up and rumbling overhead like distant thunder, until eventually she made her way down the stairs and slammed into her usual seat.

She had been furious yesterday evening when she’d returned from work, and she was not happier for a night’s rest – she brooded by the stove, her long hair hanging over the back of her chair, her tresses as ratty and unkempt as usual, but now the tips were scorched with heat and reeked of burnt hair.

Moth poured a cup of coffee, put a slice of bread cheese inside, and handed it to Lt. Grotte, who glanced warily up at her but grunted a thanks.

There was silence as Moth stoked up the fire and began cooking. As she worked, she could see out the massive windows to the grove – the fogspotted farmers who’d been sent away yesterday were arriving. Moth ignored them, and finished up breakfast, giving Lt. Grotte a hearty serving with extra honey and cream poured on it.

Lt. Grotte looked down at her bowl.

“I don’t like porridge,” she said. Before Moth could answer, Lt. Grotte ladled the porridge down her throat, so she didn’t have to taste it, and gulped coffee to wash it down.

Quietly, Moth sat on the stovebed to warm up and ate her porridge.

Moth let Lt. Grotte brew. She remembered this from Ama – prying got nowhere, but uncomfortable silence always provoked her to talk.

“Well?” Lt. Grotte asked angrily, after no more than three minutes. “You’re not going to ask?”

Moth looked at her.

“It’s ridiculous. I’m just doing my job, yet I somehow represent all of the kack? They should be angry at Captain Rill, but no, of course not, he’s too drunk to show up, so I’m left holding the banner. It’s a job! I don’t want to do it, it’s part of my program to get released.”

“Job-?” Moth began, but Lt. Grotte continued her tirade.

“The burns! Theres a huge spot on the edge of the Copekivi farm and those – those –” Lt. Grotte ground her teeth, trying to find the perfect pejorative, but for once coming short, “tinners, wouldn’t let us get on with it, it took all day just to do one burn because of their assery.”

“What di–”

“Let the animals loose over the burn spot, we spent a lifetime trying to round them up, some old woman feigned a heart attack and had to be moved from the location, they upset a beehive – I was ready to burn their whole farm down, god I nearly did, I was about to use Korho’s ugly beard as kindling. If Feldar hadn’t been there I…” Lt. Grotte, even recollecting the previous day, stood up and slapped over a side table, storming to her cabinet near the fireplace and pulled down some beer.

“And I’m sure you just love to hear it,” she spat at Moth, who watched her somberly. “Don’t try and hide it.”

Moth looked down at her hands. She thought of Lt. Grotte going out of her way to help prevent tin cries, she thought of Correb burning, she thought of the farmers and their farms ripped apart to ash.

Finally, she looked at Lt. Grotte and said, “Your hair’s burnt.”

Looking at her coldly over a beer bottle, Lt. Grotte said, “Sure is.”

Moth stood up and got a pair of scissors. She held them up, waiting for Lt. Grotte’s response, who narrowed her eyes but sat down.

Moth carefully trimmed Lt. Grotte’s hair of the burns, only about two inches, and then – when Lt. Grotte didn’t protest or say anything – she carefully pulled apart clumps and tangles, combing through her hair section by section, finally up to her scalp, never saying a word as she did.

Lt. Grotte was stiff and suspicious at first, but began to relax like a dog being groomed, until finally she was slumped in her chair watching the fire with half closed eyes.

“They say I set their ferrier on fire with the burns,” said Lt. Grotte.

Moth stiffened, but kept her voice level. “Who said?”

“The Copekivis!” Lt. Grotte growled, half looking over her shoulder - and seeing Moth’s expression, she curled her lip. “What, you too?”

Moth could smell burning feathers. She wanted to say nothing to Lt. Grotte but couldn’t when she thought of her ferrier. “It burns him. The smell is – well, I can’t forget it. Sabine, I know you’re not trying to, it’s not something you’ve set out to do – but it’s real, it hurts him. There’re consequences to this. You’re not the one commanding the burns but…but you are the one obeying the command.”

Lt. Grotte had turned her head away as Moth spoke, and Moth didn’t know what sort of face she was making. Moth quietly continued combing, using some herbal ash water to clean her hair, and braided it.

When she was finished, Lt. Grotte stood up and lit a cigarette from the fire. She examined herself briefly in a hand mirror that was hung on the wall, and said in a flat tone of voice, “Tinners are already waiting. Nehem gave me instructions on how to help, so I’ll start boiling water. Sentries will be here in an hour to help as well – I’ll try and keep them in order, but I can’t promise much with these new ones.”

Moth nodded – shaky from the confrontation, she couldn’t make eye contact and turned to examine how many pots of honey remained.

She couldn’t make the farmers wait anymore – she could hear lowing from oxen as they pulled up carts of people, and crying from small, tired children. Squaring her shoulders, she went outside.

The porch was untouched by the morning light, and was cold under its deep roof – magpies sat, awaiting her entry, and chittered gently when they saw her. Moth set foot on the top step, peering out to see if she recognized anyone in the crowd.

A dirt clod whizzed through the air and struck her shoulder.

Moth yelped in surprise, staggering backwards – another clod spun through the air, skimming by her, and exploded against the house.

“Liar!” a woman screamed and picked up another dirt clod.

Lt. Grotte was there in a breath. She leapt in front of Moth, taking a blow to the head from a clod, and charged forward, moving surprisingly fast for a human her size. She grabbed the woman and restrained her in a bear hug.

“Fat bastard!” screamed the old woman, kicking uselessly against Lt. Grotte. She had ratty, bald-patch riddled hair, and rotted teeth – and, like Moth, she had a fogspotted left hand. Since her arms were held back, she managed to get one of her shoes loose and kick it at Moth with impressive precision. She glared at Moth and snapped, “You’re a liar! Liar! How can you stand there and deceive Hiren like this – for fun! Bitch! Harlot!”

There were murmurs from the fogspotted who we’re waiting, alarmed by the accusations.

Moth touched her shoulder, now bruised and covered in dirt, and then at the furious woman. Anger rose up in her, but quickly ebbed away as she saw the woman’s ragged shoes, barely kept together with twine, and her sore riddled legs – whatever her life had been, it was hard to endure.

Moth thought of Grandpa Clem, in his chair cutting up apples, handing her pieces under his chair, and it was clear this woman had never had someone like that, never learned gentleness through example.

Moth went, very slowly, up to the woman – she met her dark eyes and asked her respectfully, “What happened? What’s wrong?”

“You lied!” screeched the woman, struggling uselessly against Lt. Grotte’s arms.

“About what?”

“The poultice – it didn’t work! You lied!”

Moth felt she would remember this woman. “May I see your hand?”

The woman shoved it in Moth’s face, but it was a feeble attempt to intimidate, as her hand was so locked up by the fog it could neither uncurl to slap or curl to punch.

Moth, with her own left hand in a poultice-glove, took the hand and examined it – it was certainly caused by the fog. Moth was beginning to grow nervous, until she smelled something familiar wafting from the woman’s hand.

“Mint?” Moth asked.

Growling, the woman jerked her hand away. “Like you said!”

“Did I make that poultice for you?” Moth asked, befuddled

“Your lying recipe – my sister bothered to come all the way up here to get us some help but was turned away last night by your sentry friend. She learned your recipe, and brought it home, and the mint and honey did nothing!” She looked at the other farmers with wide eyes, wailing louder, “Nothing!”

Moth took off her glove and put it on the woman.

Stunned, the woman bent and stretched her hand, curled and uncurled it, raised it up and down. She was so mesmerized, Lt. Grotte was able to let her go as she stared down at her own hand.

“Mapmoss – it’s mapmoss, not mint,” said Moth kindly. “Your sister must’ve misheard us. Here, I’ll write you the recipe so you can bring it home.”

Moth wrote it down and handed it to the woman, who absently stuffed it in her pocket as she continued to move her hand around, like a baby who had just discovered its own limbs.

Aware of people watching her, and Moth at her elbow, the woman lifted her chin and said, “About damn time you managed to get this right.” She turned and left the grove.

Moth stood there, and slowly looked at Lt. Grotte, who’s eyebrows were raised up to her hairline – she chuckled. “Your tinners are a real pain, Mere.”

She went and dragged the table out of the house for Moth, helping her set up the station.

Moth had a precious hour before she had to babysit sentries, and so hastened to set everything up as tidily as possible to explain clearly to them how to help – simple tasks, like tearing up bandages, or crushing the mapmoss.

Thinking of Guyrede’s warning yesterday, Moth scanned the trees of the grove as she set up. Within a short time, a small group of farmers – none of them fogspotted – were gathering in the woods to smoke and talk in hushed tones. Moth, forcing herself to be bold, went to speak with them.

They were respectful, but when she asked if they’d consider volunteering, they curtly turned down her offer.

When she left to resume making poultices, they went to talk to the Aldur farmers – only the adults who’d come without children.

She – like a nervous tic – kept glancing towards them. It was actually a relief to her when she heard the sound of hooves, announcing two dozen sentries arriving on horse and mule. The tin cry farmers were soon nowhere to be found.

Moth set her mind to treat the bumbling new sentries well, and forced a smile as she waved them over.

As they approached, she was surprised to see several of them were lieutenants, their scarlet capes dazzling bright in the greenness of the grove.

“Hevwed?” asked a man crisply, elegantly swinging himself down from his horse and checking the time on his watch. He had long, graying dreadlocks he kept neatly tied back.

“It was. It’s Mere Korraban, now,” answered Moth.

“Lt. Saavule. Pleasure.” The man gave a terse bow and gestured to eight sentries, who all marched over and stood to attention in a line.

The other two lieutenants came over and greeted Moth with bows, also having their sentries standing sharply to attention and well organized. They waited for her directions.

Unready, Moth stumbled through her explanations, showing them everything they needed to know about making a poultice, giving them specific measurements, and then demonstrating how to make it and wrap around a fogged limb. She also showed them where they had set up areas inside the house for helping those who needed to be undressed and bandaged privately.

After her demonstration, none of the sentries needed it explained a second time – they took entirely over the making of the poultices and began with militant efficiency to serve the farmers.

Still processing what she was seeing, Moth took a step back to survey them working, and as she did, a sentry came up alongside her and gave her a chair, before silently returning to his job.

Moth sat on the chair, dumbfounded.

She wasn’t needed. She could rest.

Lt. Saavule came by to inquire about using the fireplace for boiling water – Moth gave him permission – and he was turning to leave when Moth called him back and asked, “I’m sorry if I’m a little confused. I was expecting…well, inexperienced sentries to help. Did Captain Rill change his mind?”

“We had heard that there was a need for sentry volunteers to administer poultices to the wounded,” said Lt. Saavule, neatly removing his gloves and tucking them into his pocket. “Well, it seemed a way of returning a favor. I hate to owe anyone.”

“I’m sorry?”

    “I would have been demoted – I wouldn’t have produced a single carrot on my property – had it not been for Norwin and Clement Hevwed,” he said.

Moth leaned back in her chair.

Lt. Saavule nodded to the other lieutenants. “When they heard it was the daughter of Norwin, the granddaughter of Clement, who needed assistance, they also volunteered their services. Those two have been teaching us to farm for three years, at the cost of their own standing in the community and neglecting their own farm.” He reiterated, an annoyed curl to his mouth, “I do not like owing anyone.”

“Well – well I…thank you so much, for your work today–”

He cut her off, as her slow way of speaking was behind schedule, “You’ll have us for the week. I can’t imagine you’ll need us more than that – the amount of people requiring assistance will quickly decrease as the days go on. A few dozen or so through the day looking to you for help should be manageable by you alone, but right now, two alone trying to help several regions of people is inefficient.” He turned on his heel and continued his work inside the house.

Moth’s heart felt light – she felt she’d float away, she was almost giddy with relief, with gratitude, with a trembling joy for who she had come from.

Lt. Grotte was amazed as well. She consulted with Lt. Saavule and the others, making small chat, and since she wasn’t needed she sat on the porch and whittled.

Moth realized with her free time she could go talk to those who had been touched by fog – before, she had been too hurried to say much to anyone. It was a delight to her, reminding her of her rounds with Mrs. Tunhofe. She found a journal and pencil and went around the grove, amongst those who waited, to talk with them.

Most of these Lad and Aldur farmers were awestruck by her. They hadn’t seen her grow up, like Hiren had, and she was mysterious to them. They watched her uncertainly – either with scrutinizing caution or fully admiring.

Though all of them had questions for her, as the bride of Correb, they were more excited to talk about themselves and their experiences, explaining when they had first been affected by the fog and how it had caused them difficulties in working and keeping up with planting – which Moth was meticulous in writing down.

I might not be able to see Grandpa, but maybe I can send him letters, she thought.

It became clear to Moth, as she wrote down times and dates, that a vast amount of the fog attacks had occurred shortly after she’d been offered. When the drought finally broke, they scrambled to get food planted – they had been too desperate to be cautious while digging.

“The most bursts of fog we ever had – ever – occurred these last six months,” said a man from Aldur, one ear deaf and gray from fog. “It seems to die down in winter. Maybe the ground is too frozen. I’m dreading it heating up again.”

Correb’s words echoed in Moth’s mind.

A late spring fog.