The Ferryman - Book 1

Chapter 99:

Cubby

Spring rain struck Pineland.

Rain poured over the forest, drenching the boughs and spiraling down the trunks in rivulets – it soaked through the pine needle floor and flowed in buckets onto the roads, turning all the paths into impassible rivers of mud.

The burial camp was forced inside their tents, everyone spending long days waiting out the weather.

The first few days Moth was grateful for the rest – but by day three she sorely missed having work. She got wool from Heikka and crocheted with her by the braziers, watching the little fire try not to suffocate from the damp air.

Three days turned to four, then five, then six.

Moth slept more to force time to pass faster. She wrote in her journal to keep her mind from getting soggy, as all the days – gray as inky water – ran into each other – she only could tell the time was passing by the rhythms of Heikka bringing her meals.

Each day the food got skimpier and skimpier.

“I’m sorry ma’am, it’s gotten so low lately,” Heikka said, setting a bowl of barley porridge in front of Moth. Like everything in the camp, it was too wet.

Moth took it and ate, asking Heikka, “How low is it?”

Heikka picked at her mouth, fidgeting, and then said, “Father won’t tell the others, but he hasn’t eaten much this last week to conserve the food. We usually

make runs to Okatto for supplies, or make do with trapping and foraging, but this rain…”

Looking down at the porridge, Moth set down her spoon. “And the vagrants?”

“We give them what we can, but it’s not enough, and the parents give most of it to their kids. Pray to the Gardener that the rain lets up.” Heikka sighed, and she folded her arms on the table and laid her head down. “Even if it does stop, father says the roads will still be soaked, so we can’t make a trip to town for a while. My stepmother is supposed to bring up food soon, but she can’t with all this mud.”

Moth hurried next to Heikka and hugged her shoulders. “It’ll be alright. We’ll just outlast the rain – we’ll be stubborn. That’s something I know your family is good at.”

Heikka leaned against Moth and said softly, “I don’t think I make a very good Copekivi.”

*

The rain drizzled, slowed to droplets, and stopped.

A weak sun appeared, shining thin light on the swampy ground. It would be days before it was dry again

No one even attempted to travel, but at least they could go outside and feel the sun on their skin, could build fires and hang up clothes to dry – several mothers stood with their babies around the fire.

The babies had caught colds and curled up miserably against their tired, hungry mothers.

Moth helped hang up their clothes and blankets near the fires, listening to the helpless sound of children feebly coughing. She looked around the soaked camp, wondering what could be done, and saw Korho.

He sat in the doorway of his tent, tense and thoughtful.

He was sick. Clammy and hot, he’d opened up his collar to get air, sweat collecting on his top lip, his eyes bloodshot and weary as he sipped on tea Heikka had forced him to sip. Still, he saw and watched the camp.

Finishing hanging up blankets, Moth waded through the mud to reach Korho, and stood quiet for a long minute, watching the vagrants with him. She asked, “What should we do? Everyone’s hungry.”

Coughing and wiping his mouth, Korho leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “There’s no way to get to town. No way for my wife to reach us.”

He’d lost weight. Moth saw it around his neck. She knelt down next to him and rested her head on his shoulder. “Then we’ll wait.”

“There is one place with food,” Korho said reluctantly, rubbing his forehead. “The only place with food is the logging cookhouse. The only one with keys to the food storage is Maxa.”

Moth’s heart sank.

She looked at the devastated camp, resigning herself. “I’ll ask him. I’ll…I’ll beg.”

Korho miserably nodded. “You’re a good kid. We have the money to buy the food, I just know Maxa won’t sell low – won’t sell easy. It’ll cost us some dignity to ask and be refused, but we have to try before we start eating our horses.”

“We?” exclaimed Moth. “Korho, you can’t come with me, you’re too sick.”

Korho angrily shook her off his shoulder. “Give me two days and I’ll be fine!” he immediately had a coughing fit, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping his face. He muttered, “maybe we don’t have the time to wait.”

“We don’t,” Moth said firmly.

Korho jutted out his jaw. “There’s no way in hell you’re going alone. Take Rodin, and Feldar, and the sentry.” He hesitated. “Feldar. Well, send him to me first before you tell him, I want to talk to him.”

Moth hurried through the camp, relieved to have direction and work again. She found Feldar and sent him to Korho, then hurried towards Lt. Grotte’s tent.

Pausing at the flap, Moth called, “Sabine? Are you awake?”

There was a muffled response, and the sound of a bottle falling over.

Moth pushed the flap open. “I’m coming in. The rain stopped, I don’t know if you saw?”

Lt. Grotte lay face down on her cot, still in her nightwear, four wine bottles strewn around her bed.

Creeping up to her, Moth touched her shoulder and asked, “Sabine are you, ah, awake enough to come help us?”

Lt. Grotte grunted and turned her head away.

Wavering on her feet, Moth gave up and left the tent to find Aggo and saddle him up.

It was not long before Feldar and Rodin found her.

“Where’s Sabine?” Feldar asked.

“She’s…not feeling good,” Moth said, fiddling Aggo’s reins.

Feldar grimaced. “Well, Rodin is ready. It’s a short ride to the main road – if we make it there, we’ll be out of the worst of the mud.”

Rodin patted the neck of his horse. “We’ll go slow. If we think for a minute that the horses will get stuck, we’ll turn around and try tomorrow.”

They slowly, cautiously, made their way through the mud roads, the horses laboring against the dense muck, worrying Moth that they’d lose a shoe. She hated to risk Aggo tripping and hurting himself, but she saw no other choice if they were to have any food in the next week.

The road rse up, and the mud became thinner – soon the horses able to make safer progress through the forest, though no one was eager to reach their destination.

As they continued, Rodin said, “This crew, this was your crew, Feldar? This was who you worked with?”

Moth stiffened and looked at Feldar, who nodded mildly and said, “Aye.”

“And Maxa was your boss?” exclaimed Rodin, suddenly realizing.

“Aye.”

“What a hell this place is. How did you survive?”

Feldar laughed. “You dig your feet in. Learn to fight.”

“Is that how you learned to use a knotted rope like that?” Rodin asked, nodding towards the rope that always hung from Feldar’s saddle.

Nodding, Feldar absently touched the rope. “We had to turn our axes into the toolhouse, so I didn’t have a weapon besides a knife. Not good against groups.”

Rodin narrowed his eyes, disgusted. “I’ve never heard of a crew gone this sour. Rupert’s crew isn’t like this. Groups?”

“During the day it wasn’t bad, just dangerous work log driving. Night was the problem. Most times it wasn’t worth risking sleeping in the bunkhouse, I’d just find somewhere else to sleep.” Feldar wore and an unbearable flat expression. “They still found me a few times.”

Even Rodin felt he’d talked too much, but he said to Feldar, “I wish I’d been there. I would’ve guarded your back.”

Feldar met Rodin’s eyes and nodded.

The horses plodded along until they reached a broad, common road, which led up, up through the trees, leading to a bald spot of the forest that the woodcutters cleared decades ago, not even leaving a stump behind.

It was the center camp of Fjer territory, containing the cookhouse, toolhouse, and bunkhouse, behind which a pen of crowded pigs noisily ate scraps. The rain had barely touched the camp, and with so much canopy gone, it was exposed to the sun to dry.

Most of the woodcutters were off working in the forest – their sawing and shouting drifting through the trees – but a dozen or so were busy at the camp with jobs. One of them, a squat man with a big beard, finished feeding the pigs and turned towards the bunkhouse.

The front of the bunkhouse had a built-on room, functioning as an office, painted red with a yellow trim.

The door flung open and a woman burst through it, screaming.

Feldar, Moth, and Rodin all yanked their horses to a halt, staring.

Moth recognized her. She was the pretty washerwoman who’d been sitting with Gauzlin.

The woman carried a battered carpet bag, hastily stuffed with clothes. Her face was red and steaming with anger, and her lips curled up over her teeth – she turned on her heel, shrieking, and flung her bag at the office window.

The wide window survived the blow, but with a noise that shook Moth’s teeth.

“Bastard!” she screamed, picking up rocks and throwing them wildly at the building. “Ass! I hope you drown in Suvala forever! I hope you never see a scrap of daylight again!”

The man who’d been feeding the pigs ran over. “Gertie, what’s wrong?”

“Maxa fired me!” she howled, quaking, eyes beginning to tear up. But, she bent down and picked up a final rock and flung it – it hit the window, and it cracked from top to bottom.

Realizing what she’d done, Gertie snatched up her bag and ran.

Regretting ever coming up, Moth hurried forward before she lost her courage, asking the stunned man, “Hello, I’m looking for Maxa, do you know where he is?”

The man gawked at Moth, taking in her ancient outfit and shining horns. HE hastily smoothed his beard and said, “Looking for Maxa? Aye, well, he’s inside. Do

you want me to mind your horses-” he stopped when he saw Feldar, gasping, “God it can’t be. Cubby, is that you?”

Grinning, Feldar swung down from his horse and hugged the man. “Polly, how’ve you been?”

Polly stepped back, amazed. “You’re a full foot taller, and twice as wide now.” He shook his head. “Why’d you come back, boy? This place – Maxa – only got worse.”

“I got older,” said Feldar, opening the front door.

The room smelled like pine, kerosene, and tobacco. The brightly painted trim was only beginning to peel, and a fire burned in an iron stove, tucked behind a sleek, polished desk, tidily stacked with ledgers and documents.

Gauzlin sat behind the desk, and Maxa sat in front.

Spread out on the surface were dressed, perfume, makeup, and jewelry.

Gauzlin sprung up angrily when they entered the office, but Maxa glanced up, his small black eyes unemotive, uninterested, and looked back down at the dresses, his calloused hands roughly tugging the trim and lace.

“What are you doing here? You have no appointment that I know of!” exclaimed Gauzlin. His shrill voice was worse indoors.

Moth stepped forward, saying earnestly, “I’m sorry, but its and emergency. I need to talk to Mr. Fjer.”

Gauzlin snatched up a broom, thinking that would be sufficient to forced Feldar and Rodin out of the office – but Maxa waved a hand to direct Gauzlin to sit down.

Maxa turned heavily in his chair, his massive body filling the room, his beautiful coat hanging from his should like a wall of embroidery. He reached over for the perfume, snigging it, and then picked up a pearl necklace, feeling the weight of it in his hand, fiddling with the chain between his thick fingers.

Moth stood hesitantly, then realized he was waiting for her to talk.

Clearing her throat, she said, “The rain flooded the roads with mud, trapping our camp. We can’t go to town.”

Maxa picked up a nightgown, holding it up to the light to see the embroidery, and then pressed it to his nose to smell it, meeting Moth’s eyes as he did.

“No…supplies. We’re hungry,” Moth said at last. “We need food for out camp. We want to buy some from you.”

Gauzlin’s mouth opened in delight, he looked bug-eyed at Maxa.

Maxa set down the last of the clothes into a pile, pulled out his ivory toothpick, pulled it open, and began picking at his mottled gums.

He looked at Moth.

“Mighty high for someone begging,” he said.

Confused, Moth realized she was standing over him – though seated he was almost eye-level with her. She hastily grabbed a chair and sat down.

He shook his head. “Lower.”

Jerkily, Moth gripped the arms of her chair. The hair on her neck prickled and her neck grew hot. She slowly, slowly, knelt on the floorboards.

“Please,” she said.

Maxa leaned forward, blocking the light from the window and looked down at Moth – his coat fell forward around him enveloping her. “You’ve dragged garbage through my pineland, and now you want me to feed that garbage?”

Moth’s hear raved in her throat. She whispered, unable to look away from his lightless eyes, “We can pay you, we have the money.”

Feldar stepped forward and yanked Moth up from the floor, placing her behind him. “Maxa,” he said levelly, “why play games? Do you have the food or not? Do you want our money or not?”

Maxa leaned back, eyeing Feldar. He chuckled.

“So you think you’re a man, now?” Maxa stood up, towering over Feldar. “I have the food, but will you pay?”

“What do you want for it?”

Maxa picked at his teeth, glancing at Gauzlin who was quivering with excitement, and said to Feldar, “I want you to work for me tomorrow. We have logs we’re about to send downriver. Snow and rain has filled the river – I want you to oversee the log drivers, to ride with them. Like last time – you remember?”

Feldar’s hand went up to cover the back of his neck. “How far?”

“Only to the millhouse.”

Rodin and Moth looked at each other.

Feldar crossed his arms, thinking. “I’ll ride. But we’re to be paid in the food now, up front.”

Maxa nodded ta Gauzlin, who ran to get Polly.

“I hope you remember how to use a cant hook. That was hard for you last time, as I recall.” Maxa swept pass them to the door. “Tomorrow, Cubby. Just like old times.”