14

Fowl Ferriers

WYNN JOLTED AWAKE, HER TAIL batting against an empty clay bowl. The bowl rolled, resting against the burnt twigs of the extinguished firepit. She watched as small droplets of last night’s soup sank into the soil below.

Wynn looked up to see pink streaks of cloud drifting in and out of view in the dark blue sky above. Nearby birds chirped and plants began to rustle as the Gully once more sprang to life. She turned to the other side of the clearing to see Lance sleeping against the rock. A little way away, Beryl slumbered on the bottom branch of a tree.

Realization dawned on her. She had been dreaming, likely dozing off after finishing her soup.

Still, Wynn wrapped her long tail around her paws protectively and looked around.

It’s as if he’s here, she thought. It felt as if Brume’s gaze was burning into her cloak, watching her with the same malevolence he had in the grotto.

She flinched as she saw movement in the corner of her eye. Wynn turned and watched a small crowned robin swoop down and peck at the ground near her. Its talons scratched the soil. It turned its black and yellow speckled head as if to get a better view.

Wynn sighed in relief, spooking the yellow bird into taking flight once more.

These have to end eventually, she thought. I’ve never met a lark tormented by dreams this long, even old Aldenmire Redwhisker.

But even with that thought, she felt a twinge of doubt. At least not yet…

Still too shaken for a soliloquy to start the day, Wynn got up and stretched. As if on cue her stomach rumbled. I might as well eat. It beats waiting for the others to wake.

Remembering the nest Beryl had spoken about the day prior, Wynn rose and wandered into the brush of the Gully once more.

Eggs made everything better.

WYNN WATCHED, PERPLEXED, AS BERYL yawned and Lance seemed to drag his boots.

It was near noon as the trio trekked through the Gully, acting as if they hadn’t slept a wink.

Maybe only crepuscular larks like getting up in the morning, Wynn thought. And that’s why they’re still tired. But it was odd to imagine for the swirl-ear. Mornings to her were the best part of the day. Crisp air, a painted sky, and plenty of time to eat before dangerous wilders began to wake. How could you hate that?

But then again, they are a bit odd, Wynn thought.

Wynn sneezed as she trudged after the others. As they pushed past the long striped leaves of a sprig-fern, tiny specks of pollen whirled freely in the air around her. She peered ahead of the others, who seemed to cross the sprig-fern patch unfazed.

Wynn sneezed again.

I’m really starting to hate this Gully, she thought, sniffling. She quickened her pace to keep up with them.

“Are you sure we’re supposed to be trudging through here?” Wynn called ahead to them.

Lance paused, while Beryl hovered nearby.

“Positive,” Lance said, “why?”

Wynn reached into her venture pack and took out a rolled piece of parchment. She unraveled it to reveal a map.

“It’s just that I didn’t see any settlements this way.” She handed the map to Lance, who squinted at it. He gave a small laugh and then handed it back to Wynn. “You want to read the top of that?”

Wynn looked closely at the title, then cringed.

‘Enlightenment Era Map,’ it read.

“No wonder I got it so cheap,” she said.

“Heh, no kidding,” Lance said, “almost half the villages aren’t even on there.” He turned and kept walking. “Besides, we’re not looking for a settlement yet. We’re still a bit away from the Dark Agrestal.

Wynn cocked her head. “Then what are we looking for?”

“Ferriers,” he said. “When we stopped by Knotrest, I remember overhearing something about a family of ferriers who will transport you from the Gully down to the Awlt. They should be around this part of the Gully.” Lance scratched his head as he gazed around the wild brush. “I just wish they were specific on where.”

“Maybe we should split up,” Beryl suggested. “I could take that slope over there—ack!”

An arrow flew past him and stabbed the root of a large sprig-fern. A small womgoose tumbled out of the brush, aiming a crossbow at them.

The lark had a sleek red-brown coat and black streaks that ran from her head to her long, plumed tail. Two large moose-like antlers sprang from the sides of her head. Her black, beady eyes sparkled with fury as she spoke.

“Lark or wilder!?” she cried, waving the crossbow at them.

The three gawked, surprised, at the small lark.

“I’m not hearing anything,” she shouted.

“Uh, lark?” Wynn answered, gaining her senses.

The womgoose squinted her eyes and pointed the crossbow toward her. “You sound uncertain.”

“I swear I’m a lark,” Wynn said. “We’re all larks.”

Lance and Beryl nodded, still bewildered.

“Yep,” Lance said.

“One hundred percent,” Beryl assured.

The mongoose’s demeanor changed as she rested her shoulder. “That’s a relief.” She lowered her crossbow. “I’ve never met a talking wilder yet. But you never know.”

“Glad you have a sure-fire system,” Lance muttered under his breath.

There were peeps as three small goslings peeked out from the brush. They had small red pelts that matched the womgoose’s, and two little nubs on their heads where antlers would grow someday.

“Did you kill it? Did you kill it?” they peeped.

“Nope, just larks,” the womgoose said to them.

“Rats,” one peeped.

The womgoose laughed and turned back to the larks. “They have active imaginations. Today they’re slayers…oh, where are my manners?” She put a webbed paw to her chest. “I’m Fen, short for Fennel.” She then gestured to the small goslings. “This is Fisher, Fawn, and—” She looked around till she spotted the third gosling pecking at Lance’s boots. “And that’s Frogbit.” She waddled up and shooed Frogbit back to the group. “We’re of the FowlFerriers Flock.”

Wynn startled. “Wait, did you say FowlFerrier?”

“Like river ferrier?” Lance clarified.

Fen nodded, her small head bobbing up and down with her long neck. “Yep, fairest ferrying family on this side of Agrestal lands.” She cocked her head, tilting her antlers. “Why do you ask?”

“REALLY, WHAT ARE THE ODDS?” Fen said as she led them through the brush, the little goslings peeping alongside her as she rambled. “Now, I myself am not a ferrier. My mom? Yes. Brother, sister, cousins, aunt, uncle, all ferriers. I do help load the ferry before it’s off or hitch it to the dock. Or go hunt some fish for the flock, or babysit the goslings, or defend the flock on a solo patrol by shooting at any vicious wilder that comes within a willow-root of my flock.” Fen sighed and looked down at her crossbow. “Yes, I’m the odd one out in my flock, but still it’s so incredibly coincidental that we met. You know, since you’re looking for the ferriers and ta-da, you found me!”

“Yep,” Lance said flatly, “coincidence.”

For once, Wynn shared his dourness. This womgoose could talk your ear off.

“Ah, and here we are!” Fen said.

They arrived at a small hamlet.

As they walked down the dirt road, they passed little buildings of round gray cobblestone and fettered roofs of tangly wattlereed and wood. A small crowd of womgoose milled about, carrying baskets of goods and stacks of kindling. Dotting the sides of the road, many roped lines of fish hung above the sloped ground.

Fen sent the goslings off. They peeped and waddled into the crowd.

The further their group entered the small hamlet, the stronger the scent of raw fish and soaked rye. Wynn heard a groan and glanced at Beryl, who was starting to look a little more green than blue.

At the far end of the hamlet, they spotted three womgoose loading a ferry. They rolled and hauled large barrels and burlap sacks onto little wooden ferries that bobbed under the weight.

“Fletch, Delta, Morrow!” Fen called. The three womgoose looked up and started bickering amongst themselves until one of them sighed. He drearily put down a sack of grain and walked over to them.

“Yes Fen,” the grizzled womgoose grumbled, “and do get to the point this time.”

“We have voyagers—possible ferry-riders, if you will,” Fen said.

The womgoose studied them, unimpressed. “Oh yeah? To where?”

“To the Awlt, or one of its ports,” Lance said.

“Humph,” the womgoose said as he scratched his bushy eyebrows.

“So?” Fen said. “Is it doable, Fletch?”

“We’re willing to pay, of course,” Wynn added. Hopefully it’s not too expensive.

Fletch eyed Fen. “Did you tell ‘em?”

Fen bristled. “That we charge more now? I was getting to that.”

Fletch gave her an irritated look.

“Oh! That!” Fen turned to the trio nervously. “You should probably know that we have been experiencing some choppier waters of late.”

“What do you mean?” asked Lance.

“Nothing too crazy,” Fen said. Just know there are sometimes vicious creatures and sometimes plants on that route. Also, it’s sail-back season.”

“Wait, sail-back what?” asked Wynn.

They were interrupted by two goslings running towards them.

“Aunt Fen! Aunt Fen! Frogbit just bit another speckled-toad!” Dawn cried.

“It’s true, I saw!” chirped Fisher.

Fen shook her head. “That Frogbit,” she said apologetically to the group. “Look, I need to take care of this. I’m sure Fletch can help you all out with the rest. Best of luck!” And with that she followed the goslings, leaving the group with Fletch.

Fletch huffed. “Look” he said, “we have a ferry leaving in a bit. The journey may be a bit rocky, but that’s what happens when you travel through the Dark Agrestal, boat or not. If you go with this shipment, I’ll cut the cost in half. You have till noon to decide.”

And with that, Fletch turned and waddled back to his group, loading the ferry.

When he was out of earshot Wynn turned to Lance. “Are you sure we can trust ‘em? Something seems a bit off about—well, everything.”

Beryl agreed. “Yeah, and I’m not sure I want to sit near barrels of fish for a whole trip.”

Lance shook his head. “We don’t have much of a choice. Either we take the quicker boat, or we trek through—and frankly this seems like the better and safer option.”

Wynn watched as they loaded the ferry with material. A womgoose struggled to drag a spiked mace aboard.

I hope you’re right, she thought.