Chapter Twenty-Seven
“What do you mean? Is this ‘burned squirrel meat’ wrong or ‘mistwraiths in the morning’ wrong?”
“I’m not sure. I almost wish I’d sent you to the ticket stand instead. You’re so much better with people than I am.”
While we talk, Lili inches away from us, pulling Gherulan with her. How often does Titus encounter this? Fear and loathing
just because of his Dhakaran blood? Gherulan is noticeably confused by his mother’s behavior. He hasn’t been taught to hate,
yet.
To Titus, I say, “What has your hackles up, exactly?” Maybe I’d have my hackles up too, if people treated me like this.
“The fare is twice what it was in summer,” he says. “The woman at the counter said they can barely keep up with demand because
so many people are fleeing Corth. But more than that . . .” His voice trails off.
“Just an instinct?”
“Everyone seems worried. Almost frantic. But I don’t always read people well.” He shrugs.
“Well, I trust your instincts.” I turn to Lili. “What have you heard about this ford?” I ask her. “Did you come this way before?”
Lili is eyeing Titus warily, but she perks up, as though relieved to be included in our conversation. “We forded here last spring,” she says. “The water was higher, but there weren’t so many people. Is something wrong?”
“We’re not sure.”
“Is it safe to cross?”
Titus says, “Don’t see why not. But the wait is several hours because all the ferries between here and Cassalandra al Mare
have stopped servicing. We won’t be able to cross until late afternoon.”
Lili deflates, and Gherulan is able to escape her grasp. I take in her muddied skirts, her scuffed shoes, her pack sagging
from being near empty of belongings, her sunken cheeks. I don’t know their history or what inspired their trek, but it’s clear
they don’t have much. The longer the journey takes them, they hungrier they’ll be.
Gherulan is oblivious, completely enamored with the horses. He has decided that Apple is worth his attention too, and has
taken to softly stroking the gelding’s white blaze.
Titus’s gaze follows my own, and I see the exact moment he understands what I’m seeing.
“You know,” he says, “I’m starting to get hungry. How about you all save our place in line, and I’ll go find us something
to eat?”
I have no idea how he can find kindness inside himself right now. And he’s so earnest and clumsy about it that I can’t help
but smile.
“I saw a vendor one street back selling meat pies,” I tell him.
“I love meat pies,” Gherulan says.
“We’re not hungry,” Lili snaps.
There’s that shadow on Titus’s face again. Helping people should be easy, but it’s a complicated, delicate matter.
“Well, I’m starving,” I say. “I’ll take two. Or maybe three.”
Titus nods, then hurries off without another word.
We wait. Lili is silent, refusing to meet my gaze. Gherulan giggles while Apple nuzzles his neck. Apple is more his size,
and the boy’s arms end up around Apple’s neck. I keep a close eye on the horses’ movements to make sure they’re not becoming
threatened or irritated by Gherulan’s clinging ministrations, but they both seem pleased by the attention.
The ferry house blocks our view of the docks, but it becomes obvious that a large group has disembarked when wagons and riders
pass by looking damp and disheveled. The muddled line moves forward.
Titus returns quickly with several meat pies, and I make short work of one. I’d dearly love to eat a second, but instead I
cover my belly with a hand and say, “I’m stuffed! Gherulan, will you eat this so it doesn’t go to waste?”
“You’re not going to eat it?” he asks incredulously.
“I couldn’t possibly.”
At first he holds it gingerly, like it’s a sacred object, but then he shoves it into his face, giving himself chipmunk cheeks.
Titus offers a pie to Lili, who shakes her head. But her face softens as she watches her son eat.
The pies are long gone and I’m starting to feel peckish again by the time we’ve reached the front of the line and it’s our turn to cross.
I’ve seen rope-drawn ferries before, and I’ve seen pole boats used to navigate rivers, but I’ve never seen anything like this ferry—a flatboat with a railing, and two platforms at either end.
It’s manned only by two brothers—twins—and two additional crew members without ropes, oars, or poles.
We all crowd onto the deck, pressed tightly enough to draw a huffed complaint from Blackwind. The twin brothers take up positions
on the slightly elevated platforms at either end, and they make a dramatic flourish in unison with their arms.
The boat shoots away from the shore, to the whooping delight of several passengers.
It must be their Gift, propelling something across water.
The twins work in tandem, moving their arms in synchronization like a pair of dancers. One crew member stamps out a steady
cadence, while the other calls out minor adjustments to their course.
We hit fast water, and the whole crew begins to sing.
“The Arbonal brothers are ferrymen born—
They’re ready to go first thing in the morn.
Other ferries have men who fall out of bed—
They’re strong in the arm, but they’re thick in the head!”
A few passengers sing along, clearly familiar. More jump in when the crew reaches the chorus.
“Roll away, roll away, roll away, waters
Roll away, roll, Iolandria ho!”
I lean over to Titus and whisper, “Should I be doing . . .” I make a vague gesture in the air. “Hand things when I use my Gift?”
He chuckles. “Not necessarily. It does help some people focus. When two or more people are creating a web, it can help keep
them keep time.”
As our ferry is propelled faster and faster across the water, the wind picks up, blowing Titus’s hair from its ties. His gaze
grows distant. “It’s said that when the original Titus wove the web that saved the Sunderland, a whole orchestra played, that
all the Gifted knew when to pluck the strands of their magic by listening to the music. Some worked in time with the drums,
others the lutes or pipes. When the music was loudest, they reached deepest. When it ebbed, they knew to be gentle with their
power.”
“. . . Roll away, roll, Iolandria ho!”
“Snag to the bow,” shouts the front twin. “Sixty feet and coming fast!”
One of the crewmen holds up his hand, and everyone stops singing. In unison, the brothers swim their arms backward, slowing
the speed of the boat. Water slams into the side of the ferry, sending spray across the deck, soaking us all.
“There it is,” shouts one of the passengers, pointing to a huge log half-submerged in the water. “A giant tree!”
The brothers seem unbothered. They make brief paddling motions in opposite directions to turn the ferry upstream and steer
around the tree.
We all watch as it slides past, and the crewmen take up the song again.
“The Arbonal brothers are ferrymen true—
When the river gets rough, they know what to do.
When floods send a snag—”
“The snag!” someone shouts. “It’s turning around!”
I’m watching—we’re all watching—as the log slows, turns, and starts pushing upstream. Now it’s a huge shadow slithering through
the water, just below the surface. The song falters and stops.
“Double time!” shouts the front twin. “Three, two, one!”
They start pumping their arms like sprinters, shouting their count to stay in unison. Anything dancelike is gone, leaving
only frantic exertion. We’re barely halfway to the far shore.
The log—or whatever it is—bumps the ferry, like a large dog begging for attention. The whole boat lifts. Passengers scream
as we stumble against each other. The horses snort and stamp their feet.
The twin on the rear platform crashes to his knees. The speed of the ferry instantly slows by half, and it begins to rotate
in the current, drifting downriver. The forward brother still pumps as hard as before, but when he glances over his shoulder,
I see panic in his eyes.
“Here it comes again!” Not one voice this time, but a dozen, pointing and shrieking. The creature surfaces, and I get a terrifyingly
good look at a coppery eel with the girth of a mill tower and a razor-sharp dorsal fin that cuts the water like a knife through
butter.
Someone yells, “Grootslang!”
No. Grootslangs aren’t real. I’ve certainly never heard of one this far inland from the ocean.
“Bria,” Titus says, holding on to my arm. “Be ready—”
I’m not ready. It’s no mere bump this time, but a hard impact. Wood splinters. The boat rocks violently. A crewman goes flying
overboard. The air is filled with screams, and one of them might be mine.
“Gherulan!” Lili yells, looking around wildly. The boy is no longer holding her hand. “Gherulan!”
I cling to Apple, who trembles, ready to leap away. “Titus! The gauntlets!”
But Titus, hair slick against his scalp, fear sparking in his gemstone eyes, shakes his head. “Grootslangs are natural monsters!”
he shouts back. “Not magical. They’ve existed since long before the Sundering.”
“What do we do?”
“Survive.”
The grootslang rears out of the water, revealing a round fish eye the size of a moon and gaping jaws full of teeth as irregular
and sharp as icicles. My nose is hit with the smells of rotting vegetation and rancid meat.
Its jaws snatch the brother off the front platform, then it crashes back into the river. The ensuing wave rocks the ferry
so hard that several people flip over the railing into the roiling water.
The surviving brother clings to the rail, eyes wide, hair and clothing slicked and dripping. He makes no effort to steer.
The river controls the boat. We list sideways, dragged swiftly downstream.
Something massive knocks the bottom of the ferry, and suddenly we’re weightless, flying through the air.
The ferry collides with the surface of the river, and a resounding crack splits my ear as the railing gives way beneath my
fingers. I grasp harder, but I’m clutching nothing. My back hits the water and I almost suck in air at the shock of it, but
by the grace of fate or habit I remember to still my lungs and close my mouth just as icy water closes over my head.