The Ferryman - Book 1

Chapter 92:

Lovalaa

Rodin did not show up the next day.

Moth sat, dressed and ready, in the meeting tent writing in her journal – every time she heard feet by the front door she twitched her head up, hoping Korho would burst in with Rodin so they could bury the sunstones and finally, finally begin to progress through the pineland.

But it was always Heikka, flitting in and out, getting errands done.

Moth grew restless. She flipped her journal shut, stuffed it in her hip pouch, and started to stand up just as she heard wheels outside.

Sprinting to the tent flap, she peered outside.

A shabby wagon – pulled by an equally shabby nag – entered the campgrounds. It was Mr. Totroykkio and his son, August.

Feldar went to greet them, shaking hands and chatting easily –then, he handed money to Mr. Totroykkio, and Mr. Totroykkio drove off, leaving August with Feldar.

Feldar showed August around the camp and then put him to work helping a vagrant family collect firewood.

Moth leaned against a tent pole, scrunching her brow.

She hadn’t seen Feldar yesterday – but now he moved easily through the camp, talking with people and helping where he could. If she hadn’t seen him so agitated when he met Maxa, she never would’ve thought anything was upsetting him.

Korho burst through the tent flap, almost slamming into Moth.

“Lady!” he exclaimed, his voice filling the tent. “Don’t surprise me like that, I’m too old.”

Moth grabbed onto his shawl, demanding, “Is there any news? Please, I’ve been waiting for hours.”

Korho irritably kicked off his shoes and dropped into a chair. “No Rodin! Not a hair of him to be found. I went up to see Rupert Fjer, wondering if he had any news. Poor fellow’s hip is driving him mad.” Korho pulled out a flask and sipped at it, glaring at the scrap of pinelands that could be seen through the tent flap. “Rupert said he sent someone trustworthy to deliver the message and sunstones to Rodin and they did. No reason Rodin should be delayed for two days.”

Moth’s hands jittered, and she clutched her apron to still them. “Well, what now?”

“I’ll go up to Maxa’s crew and see if I can shake some info out of them, but as doggish as they are, they’re wouldn’t have had the time to waylay Rodin.”

“You’re going up there by yourself?” Moth asked.

Korho put his hands on the table. Even his fingers had pronounced muscles from working the forge. “I’ll be fine. I hope they start a fight – I’ve been bored out of my skin for days.”

*

The day oozed into evening.

Moth spent her time chatting with the vagrants, then helping Heikka and her grandmother make dinner – she was only trusted to peel onions and potatoes – but it kept her from feeling too restless.

Her mind was full of thoughts that produced no good outcome. She looked off distantly into the trees – she kept thinking she saw a magpie, and hope stirred

up in her – but if it was a magpie, it didn’t fly down to her but kept its distance in the shadows of the pines, like all the other birds.

Ticky was recruited for a while to help with the potatoes. He nodded at Moth but also seemed far away – he kept looking around the forest, before shaking his head and returning to the fish.

“Is everything alright?” Moth asked.

Rubbing his ear, Ticky nodded. “Just hearing things. Sometimes it’s useful, sometimes not.”

Moth hesitated, not sure she wanted an answer even as she asked: “Hearing what sort of things?”

“Well, I –” Ticky stuttered, “Well I don’t rightly know half the time. Lots of whispers, some from critters, some from people. Sometimes its louder – I’m used to it, I don’t notice it most days.”

Moth tried to listen but heard nothing except the usual noise of the campsite. “What do you think it is?”

“Ah…singing,”

Moth was beginning to form her next question when Ticky’s head jolted up again, disconcerted. He heaved a sigh and stood up, handing the potatoes to Heikka. “Well, I’m going to go have a look.”

Not understanding, but worried, Moth said, “Please be careful.”

“Always am. That’s why I’m old.” Ticky began ambling around the edge of the camp, stopping and listening every few feet. He didn’t seem like he was finding anything, but he kept going until Moth couldn’t see him anymore.

Moth was halfway through the potatoes when he eventually finished his walk around the entire camp, looking quizzical and tired, and shrugged at Moth.

Moth kept turning her head anytime she heard a strange sound in the woods – usually it was squirrels – but hadn’t a clue what Ticky was so bothered by. She heard nothing singing.

She forced herself from her listening when Feldar walked up to her, glancing around the camp. “Have you seen Sabine?” he asked.

Moth pointed to the meeting tent. “She’s napping.”

Feldar nodded. He disappeared into the tent.

Taking the basket of potatoes, Moth carried it to Heikka, who diced them – they both paused, tilting their heads as shouting drifted from the meeting tent.

“I don’t – no! – for him? Give me the gift of a head wound. Waking me up for nothing – he’s your project!” Lt. Grotte bellowed, stomping out of the tent with Feldar following behind.

“You have nothing better to do,” said Feldar, mildly.

“Nothing is better to do. I’ve trained before, always left me with a black eye – I’m no teacher.”

Feldar grabbed her by her suspender to hold her back, saying, “You taught me the sentry drills.”

“You’re smart.”

“He’s smart.”

Lt. Grotte twisted her lip – which crinkled the scars on her mouth – and looked over where August was standing, helping some Copekivi’s unload barrels of water. She gave a half shrug. “He’s got good range in his arms.”

“He’ll do your laundry in return for the lessons.”

Lt. Grotte cupped her hands over her mouth to shout. “Beanstalk, over here.”

Startled, August looked at Feldar, who nodded, and he hurried over.

The edge of the camp turned into a spontaneous arena for lessons, where Lt. Grotte taught August basic practices for polearms – starting him off with a pike.

Moth delighted in watching Lt. Grotte so animated, barking instructions at August who – though cowed by her language – listened intently and seriously, his gangly limbs trying hard to obey.

A hand tapped her shoulder.

It was Korho, returned from seeing Maxa’s workers.

“Anything?” she gasped, dropping her potatoes.

He shook his head angrily. “They didn’t know a damn thing. Didn’t want to fight either – guess I wasn’t young and scared enough for their taste.”

Moth gripped her knees, staring at the ground. “Do we stay here until he shows up?”

Korho, frustrated, nodded. “We got to wait. But if we don’t get any word from him for another week, I’ll call in the next leader who has sunstones.”

*

“Lady Correb!” hissed Heikka, shaking Moth awake.

Groggily, Moth sat up. The tent was black as ink – she could barely see the outline of Heikka standing over her cot.

“Heikka?” Moth gasped. “What’s wrong?”

A match struck in the dark, lighting a candle, and Heikka helped Moth from the bed, tossing a dressing gown onto her. “I was told to wake you up, I’m sorry. But he’s demanding to see you.”

“Who?”

“That shaman, Balwin Okat.”

This shocked her awake.

“He said he can help Rodin Tunhofe.”

Moth yanked a heavy coat over her dressing down, laced up her boots and hurried outside into the deep, cold night.

Korho and Feldar were there waiting for her, holding up lanterns. Their breath was heavy clouds around their head, lit up by the fire of the lantern and crowning them with an unnatural glow.

Balwin Okat stood between them, a wide smile hammered on his face. His brightly colored, red and blue robes could be seen even in the dark, glinting with magpie skulls and tin plates. He kept a hand pressed to his right eye, as if it was in pain.

“Ah, Lady Correb – thank you for seeing me so suddenly,” Balwin said merrily.

Moth rippled with annoyance at his flippant tone. “Where’s Rodin?”

“Well, now that’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” Balwin never lowered his hand from his eye, but occasionally his face twitched with pain. “Rodin has been led astray by the Pineland shamans – they lured him into one of the abandoned pathways and closed it off.” He added, giving a condescending glance to Korho and Feldar – who both looked bewildered. “You understand? The spaces between, the old ferrier roads?”

Moth understood – only in part, but enough. Her heart raced and she gritted her teeth. “Then get him out! Save him!”

Faltering a touch, his smile slipping, Balwin said, “I tried. I sent my magpie in.” He removed his hand from his eye. It was frosted over, as though covered in a large cataract – the muscles around it tensed and spasmed painfully. “I swapped sight with my magpie – but just as I was leading him out, my vision suddenly went dark. The Pineland Shaman’s magic was…too strong, they enchanted my bird, putting it asleep.”

Shakily looking from him to Korho and Feldar, Moth found no direction or help from them – they were as unfamiliar with magic, the marches, and spirits as a newborn.

“I tried waking it up–” Win began, but gasped, clutching at his eye again as it grew paler and paler. He spoke cloyingly, pathetically. “Please, Lady – I need your help. My eyesight could go if my magpie dies. You must call for my magpie, your voice will lead him out of the enchantment.”

“My voice?” Moth exclaimed.

Win looked at her, exasperated. “You’re his bride!” His eye spasmed again and he clutched it in pain. “God, please, call the magpie out, wake it up!”

“How? Where?”

Even as he told her, he was incredibly reluctant – as if he was exposing carefully guarded trade secrets. “Call like you call for the cattle. Lovalaa.”

Lovalaa was the traditional cattle call of the Wylle Wastes. Wordless, high-pitched sounds, sung to gather the animals. Moth had used it to call in the milk cows that her grandfather used to own.

She looked at him incredulously. “Lovaling?”

“It’s the opposite of a lullaby. It wakes up – it calls in,” he snapped. “Do it before I’m blind, I beg of you. Over here.” He hurried to the edge of camp and pointed to a pine tree.

The pine tree had nothing particularly unique about it – except for an unnatural growth, a burl, the size of a chair.

Moth quivered on her feet. Is this a trap? Is this shaman magic?

Balwin glowered at Korho and Feldar, who were watching him guardedly. “Get an ax and cut this open. If you doubt me, see for yourself.”

They glanced at each other but nodded tersely. Feldar took Korho’s ax and began hacking at the pine burl – chunks and splinters sprayed off it, and then the entire burl caved in, as if it were hollow, leaving a hole.

A hole that looked into somewhere else.

Like a window, it showed a strange, gnarled, rooted place with stunted leafless trees covered in hoarfrost. A gasp of cold air poured out.

Moth, Korho, and Feldar stared in, amazed, horrified – unconsciously they all backed away from the gateway, fearful they’d fall in.

A mix of pathetic and prideful, Win Okat jabbed his finger at the opening. “Lovalaa into there. Wake my wretched bird up – it’ll lead Rodin out.”

The thought of Rodin, lost and alone in collapsed pathways, kept to die by shamans – leaving Priscilla a widow, and his children without a father – set fire to Moth’s spirit.

She didn’t care if she didn’t understand – she needed this to work.

She inhaled deeply and screeched out the sounds, high and pained into the pineland, until her ears rang with her own voice, and the muffling pine needles split with the noise of her calling, calling, calling – the sounds that had no meaning but meant, ‘come home, come home.’

Out of the burl burst a magpie.

Moth startled backwards as it winged high up in the air and darted back down.

Crying out, Balwin lunged and snatched the magpie from the air.

Win pressed his head to the magpie, and they both shut their eyes. When they opened them again, his fogged eye was a normal brown color. He babbled in relief, rubbing his eye repeatedly, “Oh thank you, thank you.”

But Moth did not hear him – she couldn’t look away from the pine tree.

Hands reached up through the burl, hands bright red from the cold, frantically grasping at the edge of the opening.

Rodin pulled himself out of the tree, collapsing onto the ground, panting for breath –

Exhausted, shivering, hungry – alive.

He looked up, meeting Moth’s wide eyes. Reaching into his coat, he pulled out a bag of sunstones and held them up. He grinned.

“Kept them safe, little sister.”