The Ferryman - Book 1

Chapter 95:

Borrowed Power, Borrowed Voice

Moth, Rodin, and Korho returned to the camp later than they’d intended, delayed from burning the eyespotted trees.

As they neared the tents, tired and hungry, they were hit with the fatty, sizzling smell of food roasting over a fire.

Rodin lifted his nose and exclaimed, “Boar! What did your family cook up for us, Korho?”

Korho scrunched his brow. “Someone must’ve snatched a meal from the forest – we ran out of pig weeks ago.”

Vagrants jumped up to greet them, wanting to hear of the burials – but stopped when they saw Moth. They quickly bored their head and kept their distance, some flushed with uncertainty, not knowing how to act.

Moth was confused until she remembered what Heikka had told her – how her lovaled had, it seemed, summoned Correb into their dreams. She felt a wave of worry towards the vagrants, and then a broiling anger towards Win.

Donning a bright smile, she waved eagerly at the vagrants, greeting people by name and asking after their children – some bravely answered back, but most were too frightened and couldn’t meet her eyes.

Rodin whistled. “Goodness, Mere, who’d you execute?” but before she could respond, he was distracted as they rode into the center of camp. “Oh, it’s beautiful to behold!”

A young, tender boar was slowly spinning on a spit over a fire. Korho’s mother-in-law carefully perched on her stool, leaning forward to squint with her dimming eyes, giving directions to a young Copekivi.

“Well, ma, where did this come from?” asked Korho, admiring the meal.

Pursing her mouth, the old woman answered reluctantly, “from Win Okat.”

Moth and Korho exchanged woeful looks, but Rodin exclaimed, “I did not take that skinny scholar for a mighty hunter! This is a proper boar and all.”

“How much did he want for it?” Korho demanded, patting his belt pouch for money.

The young Copekivi spinning the spit answered enthusiastically, “He gave it to the camp for nothing! He just asked we all sit together to eat.”

Moth’s eye twitched. “Where is he?”

“He’s helping some of the families with the wood gathering – oh, looks like he’s back.”

Moth whipped around to see Win returning with a group of men. They’d all gone to gather firewood, and returned laden with fallen branches and whatever they could gather.

Win looked small with his shaman regalia. Youthful – bright. Without his horned headdress, his blond braids were like a sunlit stripe down the center of his dark ochre skin. He swung a basket of firewood off his shoulders and gave it to one of the vagrant families with a dazzling smile.

He was like a toothache to Moth. “Korho,” she said, dismounting from Aggo. “I’m going to talk to Balwin in the meeting tent.”

“You and who else?” Korho asked, sharply. “Always bring a third with you – gossip runs hot and quick.”

“Ha! What, they might think Mere’s sweet on Balwin? Threw our ferrier aside so quickly?” Rodin chuckled.

Moth’s hand trembled as she touched her temple, and she said through a tensed jaw, “Rodin, please find Lt. Grotte and ask her to meet me in the tent. Then ask Win to see me there.”

*

Lt. Grotte lounged in the corner of the tent, whitling a hunk of wood. She glanced up sourly as Moth hurried into the tent, late from changing outfits and freshening up.

“Why dod I have to sit in on shaman bullshit?” she grunted.

Moth clasped her hanfs urgently, saying, “I’m sorry, Sabine. You’re the only one who wouldn’t be…alarmed by our conversation. You don’t have to listen if you don’t want.”

Raising her eyebrows, Lt. Grotte straightened up a bit in her chair, fascinated.

Balwin Okat swept in through the tent flap, smiling exquisitely – the smile faltered when he saw Losi the magpie nestled on Moth’s lap, but he said, “I’m honored you asked for a private audience with me, Lady Correb!”

Moth gestured, and he sat a chair down from her.

“First, I want to…thank you for the boar,” Moth said, grudgingly.

Balwin smiled and nodded graciously.

“How…how did you get it?” Moth asked, aware of Lt. Grotte’s eyes flickering between both of them. “I wasn’t aware of your skills as a hunter.”

“Hunter? Oh, no, no – surely you’ve heard of shamans ability to charm animals?” Win said. “It’s especially easy in pineland, as it’s so rich with power. I went out and called until one came to the sound of my voice – with that, I could command it to the trap I set. Shamans never have to fear hunger from the forest that shelters them – they are lord over it.”

Moth leaned back, curious despite herself. “Did you use it on magpies to raise them?”

His smile tightened. “I’m sure you did not ask me here to learn shamanism – joyous though it would make me, and an eager and honored teacher I would be.”

“I want to learn shamanism,” said Moth, and Win raised his eyebrows. “Not to practice it, but to understand.”

“The Haracoe Shamans are friends to our ferrier, I long for forgiveness and acceptance – which begins with understanding,” said Win, stretching his hands out wide, embracing the whole room – until he raised a finger. “Ah, but know certain shaman practices are secret – I’ve taken vows I can’t rescind.”

“When you drag me into these practices, I’m afraid I’m going to demand an answer,” Moth said flatly. At his confused expression, she said, “When I lovaled, the people saw Lord Correb in their dreams. Explain!”

Hearing the question, Win relaxed, chuckling. “My lady, where are we? Pineland!”

Moth looked at him sourly.

“Don’t you know, of all the places in Hiren, Pineland has the second most entryways into the marches? Though closed on one end, we can still stand and press our ear to the door, we can still gather what seeps through the gap over the threshold. This place is rich with power, a perfect place for shamans!” Growing more excited as he talked, Win quickly controlled himself and bowed his head contritely, “And…how sad, that we used to have greater intimacy with Lord Correb and his marches, and that these abandoned pathways are scars of that divorce. But…can you blame us for gathering around the heat of an abandoned fire?”

Moth felt her chest tighten, a bittersweetness in her mind as she thought of the pathways of Correb. She glanced at Lt. Grotte, who had grown confused and bored by their conversation and resumed her carving.

“You haven’t answered my question,” Moth said.

“Ah yes. You see, Lady Mere – you are imbued with certain authorities that your marriage brings. You have married into great spiritual wealth, which I worry – and forgive me as I say this – you do not fully comprehend. In the same way that you can wear the clothes and jewelry of his storehouses, and command the respect of the Hireners because of that marriage, you also have at your fingertips certain abilities.” He folded his hands in front of him on the table. “Simply put – you are wearing borrowed power. When you ask Hiren to follow you – it is because Correb is asking that. When you ask Hiren to bury the sunstones, they bury because behind you, the one truly asking, is Lord Correb. You see? When you lovaled, you had borrowed the voice of Lord Correb. Had you not been married, well, it would’ve been nothing but a cattle call. I underestimated how thin the caul was here, and so the pineland amplified your ability, because in a sense, your proximity to your seat of power is nearer. Yes? Do you follow me? I am sorry it woke up the vagrants, frightened them, but it was necessary for Rodin’s rescue. Had we not been in pineland, your lovaling would’ve not affected their dreams so intensely.”

Moth sat, stunned. She gripped the edge of the table, blood rushing through her ears.

“Know I did not ask you to do anything shamanic – I would’ve done it myself if I could.”

“You said…you said all the shamans know I’m his wife. How did they know?” Moth asked, slowly. “Or does that violate your vows?”

“Not at all! The lowest and least of all practices, easily learnt by a child. We listened to the magpies – the moment Correb accepted you as his wife, they have not ceased to speak of you.”

Moth’s heart pounded as the next question formed on her mouth – as she risked looking powerless in front of Win. “And…where are the magpies? I have not seen them since they brought the sunstones.”

Win’s smile vanished as he said, “It has been such a drought because of their absence, for us shamans who rely on their blood. Last I heard, they had all gathered to a place in Lad, to Picky Woods. Which, I believe, is where they collected the sunstones from, yes?”

Moth covered her mouth.

Fascinated by her expression, Win leaned forward, “Perhaps you can tell me why they’ve gathered there?”

Breathing deeply, Moth said, “Thank you for your time, Balwin, you can go.”

“Of…of course.” Balwin reluctantly rose from the table, but said, “Lady, if you ever need guidance on how to use this borrowed ferrier power, please know I am willing to help. I worry your ignorance on the topic might get you misled by someone with ill intentions.”

Moth nodded, barely hearing.

Bowing low, Win Okat departed.

Moth sat brooding silently. No longer needed, Lt. Grotte stood and left the tent, drawn to the smell of the food outside.

The sun faded from the cracks of the forest, slowly darkening the room, and the light of the campfires glowed through the tent walls, casting bold shadows up from figures who passed in front of the flames.

She could only think of Ira and Nehem. It was fearful and uncertain, but she had to believe that the presence of the magpies there was something good, something hopeful she could hold on to.

Feldar ducked into the tent.

“Heavy clouds in here,” he said, squinting at Moth through the dark. “Food is about to be served, we’re to eat together.”

Moth sighed and nodded. “I don’t want to eat with Balwin, but I know I must. I thought making him take off his regalia would hinder him, but he’s…”

“Strangely popular – I noticed,” Feldar said, shaking his head. “I can’t make plans around it because I can’t understand why people like him.”

Moth followed Feldar out of the tent, grimacing. “I know he’s going to use this time to politic, it’s going to put me off my food.”

“That’s why I gave him a seat of honor between me and you,” Feldar said, grinning. “Together we can keep him from proselytizing. Tonight, at least.”

The evening, though cold, could not overpower the bonfires. Families sat on blankets, eagerly awaiting the meal. A boar was not much for their whole camp, so rabbits and squirrels were brought to fill out the portions, as well as roast potatoes and gathered wild greens. As usual, the Copekivi’s – used to feeding a horde of people – had stretched the meal and made a banquet. Bark was used for plates, and generous portions were doled out.

Win tried to wriggle out of sight, but Feldar put his hands on his shoulder and led him to his place of honor. The three of them sat on a blanket by the fire, and Heikka swept over and gave them all plates.

Win held up his hand. “None for me, thank you. Only the potatoes and squirrel.”

Moth and Feldar instantly turned to look at him, and then down at their food.

Win hastily held up his hands. “No, no! please do not presume something foul. This is not my territory as a shaman – I do not eat the animals here that are valuable. I am a guest, in a way. I will only eat the squirrels and the vegetables of this place. You all, not being shamans, need not abide by my devotions.”

Feldar raised the meat up to his nose to smell it, and then said, “Strange devotion that you can rob your hosts pocket, so long as you don’t spend it on yourself. You still stole their boar – and benefit from the approval of gifting it to others.”

“Shamans hold each other to these standards – not common folk,” said Win, trying valiantly to hold onto his shallow smile. “Simply: they can eat. I can’t.”

“Why are you bothering to keep on the pineland shamans’ good side? Didn’t you destroy your ties when you helped Rodin escape?” Feldar asked flatly, his eyes on Win.

Gritting his teeth, Win answered, “I have not destroyed every friendship I have here in the pinelands. Regardless, I was still raised with manners and will not drop the practice now.”

Feldar thought for a moment, weighing his words, and then began eating.

Moth began eating as well, too hungry to wait longer.

The fat melted on her tongue, the crispy skin crackling with each bite – in that moment she was almost fond of Win. She watched the happy faces of the vagrants having a filling meal, and began to relax. Rodin was sitting nearby with Ticky, chatting about the woods and the pathways – she overheard Ticky mention casually, “Aye, your mare was wandering one of the collapsed pathways – found a patch of grass, bless her. Docile thing, she was easy as a shadow to lead.”

“You need to show me these pathways – could be damn well useful to know about,” said Rodin, chewing loudly.

Ticky gave a meek smile but looked reluctant at the idea.

The boar was delicious. It’s carcass over the fire was slowly sliced down until the outlines of bones were visible – a few dogs gathered around the fire, whining and pawing the ground. A well-fed peace gathered quietly over the camp.

Ticky snapped his head up from his half-doze.

His eyes focused on the path leading to the camp.

Korho and Feldar noticed Ticky and followed his gaze.

Soon, a man riding a horse came down the path. He had a mouth full of dribbling tobacco – the foreman of Maxa’s crew, Gauzlin.

His large round eyes swiveled to look from one end of the camp to the other, a small smile puckering his mouth.

Korho crossed between the fires to get to Gauzlin, snapping, “What do you want?”

“A plate, I suppose – smells good!” Gauzlin said, giggling. “What is it? Pig? Smells like pig.”

Korho took hold of his reins and yanked the horse closer, startling Gauzlin who seemed to – suddenly – realize he was alone. “Why are you here?”

Gauzlin tugged helplessly against Korho’s grip. “Got a question from Fjer! Rodin, is that you?”

Rodin jumped up, waving. “Hello, Guzzling.”

“Were you burning trees this morning? We saw the smoke.”

“Aye, aye – we found some helra infected trees. Gross and eyespotted.” Rodin added, jutting a thumb at Korho and himself, “We did it proper, don’t worry – no chance of a fire.”

“You cut down trees on Fjer property and burned them without permission?” Gauzlin asked, his voice squeaking with indignation. “You must clear it with a foreman – like me – before you do. You damn well know that!”

Rodin scratched his forehead, bewildered. “They were eyespotted. Got to purge any forest of a polluted tree that’s…well that’s the rule. That’s manners.”

“That might be your backwater traditions, but it’s not law,” Gauzlin said, finally wrenching his reins from Korho. “Law is you can’t cut down lumber on someone else’s land. Do it again and we’ll call the guards! This is your first and last warning, Tunhofe – all of you!”

He rode off hastily before anyone could reply.