The Ferryman - Book 1

Chapter 87:

Paapacki Ring Dance

Paapacki had already started the festival by the time they returned.

Poles were decorated with banners of ribbons, garlands of spring flowers, woven walls of budding tree branches – the air tinkled with decorative tin coins hung on strings like windchimes.

Lanterns hung or stood where there was space for them, unlit but waiting, promising that the celebration was going to extend into the night.

Moth and her group crossed to Paapacki, but as they started to go through the gate, young people on the fence above them turned over buckets of petals, bathing the burial party in yellow, white and pink, while wildly spinning cog rattles – the cacophony was incredible, and it alerted the Pahkinnas inside that the leaders had returned.

Pahkinna’s seemed built for cheering, for celebration – half had already flung off their shoes and were racing, dancing, half-drunk across the property to meet their exalted guests with no thought of dignity.

Today was not meant for dignity – it was meant for joy.

Moth knew she could be one or the other, but she could not be both, and so she kicked off her shoes, leapt from Aggo, grabbed the nearest two people and began to dance – soon Ama was in their midst, joining the ring dance.

The musicians were on their feet, and a chorus of drunk Pahkinnas were bellowing out the songs – songs of the sun returning, songs of harvest and love, songs of the ferryman.

Whichever song they chose, they were wise to pick one that was wild and fast. No one had any more stomach for solemnity, there had been enough of that for the last few years.

Moth quickly ran out of energy after the first few dances, and Ama laughingly tugged her to sit down at a table where Lt. Grotte – in her sentry uniform – was sitting alone.

The Pahkinna’s – like any wise animal was wary of the shape and curve of a trap – were repelled by her uniform, and none of them got too near.

But Lt. Grotte, though withdrawn, seemed content with her several tankards of beer. She moved over to make room for Ama and Moth, who collapsed panting onto the bench.

Feldar came from the dance, crossing over to Lt. Grotte and – sitting behind her on the table – he put his arms around her neck in a headlock. “Sab.”

“Feldar.”

Moth was astounded by Feldar’s appearance. Though, as usual, he did not emote much, she could see he was vibrating with joy and energy – his eyes looked around at Paapacki, at the Pahkinnas and their celebrations, and he almost glowed. His mouth spread into a wide, content smile.

It was at that moment Moth understood why they called him the Prince of Hiren.

If she had not had her grandfather and parents to love her, she felt she’d have done drastic things to get that approving smile from Feldar.

Lt. Grotte started to drink, but Feldar placed his hand over the mouth of her tankard before it got to her lips. “I’ll get you to dance tonight.”

“I’d have to be drunk for that, and I’m on duty watching Mere. I’ll have no more than three.” Lt. Grotte smacked his hand away and drank deeply of the fragrant cider. “Besides, here they come – someone’s got to sit with Mere.”

Moth quizzically looked over where Lt. Grotte gestured and saw a group of Pahkinna’s approaching her now that she was off the dance floor – they were bringing drinks.

Feldar relented and grabbed Ama to return to the dance. Ama grinned and waved to Moth, joining Feldar and several others in a dance Moth was more than happy to be left out of – the jumping spider dance. The amount of leg muscles it required was impossible for her.

“Lady Korraban, what would you like?” they asked eagerly, presenting different drinks and bottles and cups for her to sniff or sample, though it was only an excuse to approach her.

Moth accepted a mug of blackberry mead and stood up from her bench to sit on the table – this let her see more of the faces around her, and she gestured for them to sit. “It would be terrible if I had to drink alone. Would you like to join me?”

This was all the invitation they needed. They sat around her on either side of the table, with Lt. Grotte acting as a precautionary wall – her face was as friendly as a wasp nest, her overshadowed eyes watching the group of Pahkinna’s over the lid of her tankard.

While this didn’t endear the Pahkinna family towards sentries, it did make Moth feel safer in case they became pushy.

But, the precaution was unnecessary – the Pahkinna’s, under the strict authority of their matriarch and a fear of Correb, treated Moth with respect. They warmed up with alcohol and an enthusiastic conversation of the next property she’d visit during the burials – but soon someone broached what everyone wondered.

It was Ivan, seated close to Moth, and after a small break in the conversation, he asked her seriously, “What was it like?”

“What do you mean?” Moth asked.

“The Marches, the House of Spring – what was it like?” and then he added, even more urgently, “What was Lord Correb like?”

The Pahkinna’s fell dead silent to grab every word – even more of the family gathered, and she was surrounded by fifty or more.

Moth struggled with what to answer first, how to explain, when Ivan urged, “If you wanted to tell us the whole story, I’m sure you’ll have a rapt audience.”

This, Moth could do. She sipped her drink, looking down into the dark alcohol. “I’ll start from the offering. After you all sent me off, I fell into the water. It was cold – but not as cold as I would’ve thought. It soaked through my clothes, there was no chance to struggle or get my head above water, I was dragged under at once – the ofere accepted me, and I fell into a deep sleep.”

In this way, Moth carefully unraveled the story for the Pahkinnas. She omitted a lot of details, such as the names of those she met in the House of Springs, or Correb’s distorted bird form – she only said he was terribly sick. She felt deeply protective about her and Correb’s private conversation, and she chose only what was necessary to explain how she ended up returning to Hiren. She told it as succinctly as she could, but it still took nearly an hour for her to summarize the entire experience, but not once was her audience disinterested – they clung onto their drinks, faces set and desperate for information about their missing ferryman.

No one seemed as interested in the story as Ivan, whose keen eyes focused so intently Moth knew he was committing everything she said to his memory – he seemed especially interested when she was talking about the house of the dead.

When Moth at last concluded her story – omitting Correb’s warning that Hiren was full of reprehensible people who would not be worthy of Moth’s service – then the Pahkinnas clapped enthusiastically.

They all began to beset her with more questions – details of everything she’d purposely glossed over.

“Who was at the House of the Dead?” demanded a woman. “Any Pahkinnas? Any Herdsons or Hevweds?”

Moth hesitated, but she did not have to answer as the dancing and music abruptly stopped. Small Mrs. Pahkinna stood up – with several of the leaders – and gestured for silence.

“My family!” the woman exclaimed, her calm voice managing to fill the place. “Please take a seat, the food is ready to be served. Lady Korraban, I would be honored if you joined the head table with me and the other leaders.”

Ivan took Moth’s arm and – with impeccable dignity – showed her to the head table, where Korho Copekivi and Feldar were already seated.

Moth was placed between Mrs. Pahkinna and Ivan – Lt. Grotte chose to lean against a tree behind Moth like a shadowy dog – with other elders and heads of the Pahkinna clan seated at her table, many of whom had married into other families and had different last names, but all bore an amazing likeness – it was a family with remarkably strong genes, a persistent family trait of red-tinted hair, freckles, and hooded eyes.

A hoard of cooks swept through, bearing platters and tureens and baskets of food, reaching around the feasters and distributing the food generously to every table, until the old oak legs of the table groaned beneath its offering.

Moth had to clench her teeth to keep from drooling.

It was everything she had pined for while at the house of spring – massive lamb pies, waves of cream melting over cloudberry tarts, roast rabbit sizzling with honey and cranberry sauce, and – to Moth’s delight – hannibread.

Warm, fragrant buttered rye slathered thick with aspic and topped with smoked eel and shredded radishes.

The whirlwind of activity was suddenly completed, and Mrs. Pahkinna spread out her hands and said happily, “Please, everyone – let’s eat!”

Moth set upon the hannibread like a wolverine, pairing it with the sharp cider, and listened as Paapacki was filled with the loud, happy noise of feasting and drinking. Adults chatted merrily, and children crawled under tables to steal sweet buns without having to get their faces pinched by aunts and uncles. Women nursed their babies and tried not to drop grease or cream on their heads as they ate.

After only a half hour of feasting, the musicians were implored to play again, and more dancing began – Moth invited Ivan and Ama, and together they began a ring dance, with more joining in until the ring of dancers filled the clearing.

Dancing and feasting occurred in natural rhythms. Moth was sometimes so exhausted she couldn’t be on her feet any longer, and then sometimes so enthused by another round of cider and energetic music that she jumped up to join the next dance.

She wished she’d known the Pahkinna’s earlier – Ama was right, they set up amazing parties.

It was a happy blur as the late noon led into the evening, with lamps lit and lanterns strung up to provide light – though it was a bright moon and a cloudless night, and it was too perfect to feel cold or go to bed.

Moth, having survived her thirteenth dance, sat comfortably by a brazier, warming her feet as she watched Feldar, Ivan, and a few other young men with strength left in their bodies dance together.

Children lay sleeping on tables and laps, faces plump with cream.

Moth half dozed, occasionally looking at the bright moon that hovered over them, and then down at the dancers – she felt miraculously at peace.

“Would you like another drink?” asked a woman at Moth’s arm. “It’s nice and warm.”

Hot, spiced apple cider was pressed into Moth’s hand. Moth sipped it as the steam beaded on her nose.

“Thank you!” Moth exclaimed; a touch louder than she intended.

The woman uncertainly stood there, and then sat down near Moth, nervously twisting her hands and staring down at her feet.

Moth glanced at her, concerned – and felt a sense she’d met her before.

She had dark ginger hair, wide hazel eyes, and long limbs. She smiled shyly at Moth, a haze of sadness about her eyes, but whatever was on her mind she kept to herself.

“I don’t think I know your name,” said Moth.

“It’s…well it was Marvaa Pahkinna. But I married Danel Hevwed.”

Moth grinned. “Oh! I didn’t realize we were so closely related. I’m so glad to meet you.”

The woman, Marvaa, took a deep breath and, without looking at Moth, quickly spoke: “I just wanted to thank you for the money, it meant – I don’t know how I would’ve managed, I couldn’t ask my parents they were so mad at me, but Danel said to write Norwin and…well, you know.”

Moth sat up straighter, confused.

“Thank me… for money?

“For the train tickets to my daughter’s funeral. My girl, Lander.”

Those words sobered Moth.

She turned to look at Marvaa, seeing in her face all that belonged to Lander. Moth reached out and took Marvaa’s hands, saying urgently, “Of course, I was happy I had enough to scrape together and help. I’m…so sorry for your loss.”

Marva Hevwed nodded, fighting back tears, wiping them away in quick jerky movements. “It’s been hard, without her,” she choked. “It’s been almost years but it feels like it was yesterday. I miss her voice, and how she’d just barrel into me when she hugged me, hugging me with every limb she had– ” she laughed and cried together. She used the end of her old shawl to wipe her face and sighed deeply. “She was always reckless, always rushing into dangerous places just for fun, I spent her whole childhood terrified she’d kill herself. I’d stop her from trying to reach the top of a tree, or going into a cave, or jumping off the roof. When she was finally grown, I felt…well I felt like I had kept her alive this long she was good now, I didn’t need to worry anymore, she had made it out of the danger years. Then I got the letter from the nightwatch.” Her chin trembled, and she whispered: “This time I hadn’t been there to stop her.”

Moth clutched her arm. “I am so glad you gave her a water burial.”

Marvaa nodded halfway hearing, but when the words sunk in she lifted her head. “The water burial,” she said, staring at Moth with reddened eyes. “She…is she at…the house?”

“Yes.”

“Have you – oh god, have you seen her? Is she happy, is she eating – can she eat?” Marvaa clung onto Moth, begging for information.

Moth – as usual – was wearing her hip pouch. She opened the pouch and pulled out a letter.

“This is from Lander. She wanted me to give it to you.”

Marvaa recoiled as if stung. She stood up and paced, not daring to believe Moth – and then darted forward, took the letter from Moth’s outstretched hand, and ran away to read it somewhere far away, somewhere alone.