The Unnameables (7 page)

But this thing he'd carved wasn't a hat. Although Medford hadn't spent a lot of time with farm creatures, he knew this was a horn. Definitely a horn.

Outside, the breeze gusted up, rattling the north window in Medford's workshop. Then the gusts of wind were from the south. Then from the east, then the west, then the south again. Then the north again. Medford stood and pushed back his stool. What was this?

From far away, so faint he wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't been paying such attention to the wind, he heard an animal howling in what sounded like despair.

Medford shivered. He stared down at Twig's trencher, which he had rendered Useless for any purpose he could think of. The wind dwindled to a gentle breeze but he didn't notice. A whole morning gone, and this was all he had to show for it—another Useless, Nameless thing to wrap up in an old shirt and shove under the bed.

An Unnameable thing? Enough to banish him? He wouldn't think about that.

Outside, one of the porch steps—still not quite seasoned—cracked like a whip under somebody's foot.

Medford gasped. He grabbed the object on his workbench, clutched it to his chest, and tried to think of something to do with it.

"Runyuin?" a voice called. Arvid Sawyer. He was the last person Medford wanted to see when he had a Useless (perhaps Unnameable) Object clutched to his chest. Arvid didn't torment Medford as much as he once did—they were getting too old for that. But he was a tale-teller like his father, with just as keen an eye for secrets.

"Raggedy?"

"Ohhh," Medford moaned, louder than he'd intended. He whipped off his shirt, wrapped up the Useless Object, hid it under the workbench.

"Art thou all right in there?" Like Prudy, Arvid talked Book Talk all the time now.

"Aye, Arvid!" Medford yelled. "Do thou take a seat out there in the fresh air. I shall be with thee anon." A little Book Talk never hurt.

Scrawnily bare-chested, Medford darted from his workshop into the kitchen, rounded the cookstove, and reached for the latch on his bedroom door.

"By the Book, Raggedy, running around without a shirt? 'Tis Harvest Moon, boy." Arvid poked his upper body in through the front door, his feet still on the porch so he wouldn't really be entering without invitation. (
Make not Free with another's Domicile, tho' it he thy Friend's,
the Book said.)

"'Tis warm enough," Medford said, scuttling into his bedroom to pull his second-best shirt out of his clothes chest. Arvid was leaning in, trying to see into the workshop, when Medford charged at him, shirttail flapping, and forced him back out onto the porch.

"At thy hair with thy knife again," Arvid said, settling into a chair. He flipped his own wispy pigtail out from under his collar, where it probably was tickling him. "Cabin's looking good, though, Raggedy. Prudy's pa did thee proud."

Medford, standing there stuffing his shirttail into his knee breeches, felt the guilt prickle up his back. He owed Twig an entire set of trenchers and bowls. He'd done five pieces. The sixth was now a mass of seashells wrapped up in his everyday shirt and stuffed under the workbench.

"Lotta windows, though, hast thou not?"

Medford could imagine what Arvid would say to his father and what Dexter would say at Cook's. "
Two windows onto a covered porch Medford's got. Aye, them Glazers talked him into it, I'm guessing. Surprised at Boyce, letting the boy waste heat like that.
"

Medford opened his mouth to say he'd wanted two windows for light but Arvid spoke first. "Ma needeth tool handles. A dozen of them. Make em out of Wheelwood, if thou wouldst. We found some on her back woodlot."

For the blink of an eye, Medford was pleased that Dulcie Sawyer was coming to him rather than ordering through Boyce as usual. But then Arvid craned his neck to look through the door. This was not a good-natured visit.

"Lonesome out here, is it not?" Arvid said, leaning sideways for a better view.

"I like it," Medford said. "'Tis private." Then, since he was a Runyuin and in no position to be rude, he added: "Quieter, you know."

"Oh, aye," Arvid said. He gave up trying to see what Medford had for dishes and sat back in his chair. The conversation died.

"I'm thinking of raising chickens," Medford offered, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"Egg Fowl," Arvid said primly. "To be by the Book."

"Aye. That's what I meant." Medford searched for something else to say.

"Guess thou seest not Prudy as once thou did."

Between the Book Talk and the change of topic Med-ford could barely grasp what Arvid had said. Something about not seeing Prudy much, which was true. Prudy was so different—serious, stern, a little scary. He thought of her now as New Prudy.

"She comes out once a week to visit," he said, trying not to sound defensive. "She and Earnest. And I see her in Town."

"Thou comest not much into Town."

"I go into Town twice a week. I have to give Boyce what I've made." What was Arvid after, anyway? He had some purpose behind the Book Talk.

"She says she doth not see thee much," Arvid said. His face was filling out to match its length. He looked healthy, grown-up, confident. He made Medford feel spindly. "I see her at the sawmill. And at Cook's. She enjoys a tale or two."

And Arvid enjoys a lie or two,
Medford thought. Why did he keep talking about Prudy?

Arvid patted the seat of Medford's favorite rocking chair. "Sit down, Runyuin." Who was Arvid to invite him to sit down on his own porch? Medford sat down.

"I know thou wantest what be best for Prudy," Arvid said, making his voice sound deep and adult. "Does her no good, no good at all, spending time with thee way out here, even with her brother. She descends from one of Island's earliest families, Originals. Twig says he worries about her future, especially now that she be Learned."

"Twig never said that," Medford said.

"Well, mayhap he should have. Mayhap Prudy should spend her time with someone more like herself."

Someone with freckles and a wispy pigtail
"Prudy can take care of herself," Medford said. "You know that better than anyone, Arvid." He pictured Arvid facedown in the waves at Seaweed Beach.

Arvid flushed, no doubt picturing the same thing. "We be not young ones anymore, Runyuin. 'Tis time to look ahead, not behind."

Medford stood. "I will make thy tool handles, Arvid. Bring me the Wheelwood and I'll get started." He didn't know when he would make tool handles when he still owed so much carving to so many people. But he would think about that later.

Medford watched Arvid until he disappeared down the woods trail to Town, then went inside to put his everyday shirt back on and kick his bed pillow until it split.

He wrapped the seashell bowl in a rag from an old tunic and stuffed it under the bed with the others. This one he would leave unfinished, he told himself. And soon he'd burn them all.

He knew he wouldn't really. But thinking he would made him feel better, as it had almost every day since Transition.

In spite of Arvid, in spite of the Council, in spite of everyone who wondered where the talent came from, Medford loved carving as if he'd been born to it. He loved the sweet smell of Syrup Tree wood newly split, the heft of the mallet in his hand, the way soft Sapwood and hard, sharp-smelling Tanningbark wood were opposite and yet the same.

But wood wasn't just wood for Medford. It was shapes, waiting to get out.

He didn't know
how
it had started but he did know
when.
He'd been new to the craft, and it had seemed to him that he saw a seabird's wing in the walking stick he was carving. He couldn't help grabbing a knife and seeing if he could bring it out a little. He would never forget the shock and the thrill of seeing that wing, feathers and all, come out of the wood under his hand.

He also remembered what happened next: Boyce's hand lunging into view and wrenching the stick away from him. Boyce broke the stick on his knee. "Would that be comfortable to hold? Just what is its Use, boy?"

Medford stared at the floor. He knew what he'd done.

"Do not do that again," Boyce said. "This is serious, a banishing thing, Medford."

But of course he did do it again. And again. Sometimes it seemed every piece of wood had a shape inside, waiting for him to find it. He had almost run out of room under his bed at Boyce's before he moved out. In his own house, he had secret carvings hidden under the bed and up on the rafters.

All the more reason to carve something he could show someone. Right now.

He got up and hurried out through the kitchen. He paused on the porch, as he often did, to breathe the lively air and look at the sea, shining in the west. But he didn't stop for long. He hastened to the southern end of the porch, which was open for storage.

The carving stock was mixed in with the firewood. He spent several minutes sorting it all out. He had lots of Tanningbark, but where was that half log of Syrup Tree? He knew he had it because he could remember ... Ah, there it—

Something snuffled near his left ear. He felt hot, close breath, which stank. A lot. Something cold and wet touched his cheek.

Medford yelped and hurled himself back on all fours. He crab-walked backward until his head and shoulders banged up against a corner of the house.

There by the porch opening stood a shaggy white Herding Creature with black patches around its eyes. Medford knew what it was because the Shepherds brought such creatures—they called them dogs—into Town now and then.
What is a dog doing here?

The creature sat down and grinned at him, its tongue hanging out the side of its mouth. Seaweed and grimy feathers were in chunks all over its back.

Something blocked the sun. Medford looked up and saw a figure standing there, impossible to make out distinctly with the sun blazing behind it. The smell assaulting his nose was so complicated he almost forgot to gag. He identified salt, something horribly decayed, several kinds of wet animal, wet wool socks, wet hay. Then his brain gave up, overwhelmed.

"Sorry to sta-a-artle you," said a low, guttural voice, a cross between falling rocks in a quarry and the wind shushing through tall grass.

Medford struggled to his feet and steadied himself against the cabin wall. He blinked the sun out of his eyes, then got a good look at the figure before him.

The man's face was long and thin, with a scraggly gray beard and bushy eyebrows. His head was bald on top, the rest covered in tangled gray hair. He was wearing a purple robe with a dirty white sash draped across his chest from right shoulder to left hip. His droopy horns were a dull white, with tarnished brass-colored knobs on the ends.

His horns
. Medford wished the ground under his feet would stop moving around.

The man had a tall staff in one hand. Leaning on it, he stepped forward and put a hand out as if he might touch Medford, although he didn't. The mans gait was funny, but Medford couldn't worry about that. He was having trouble catching his breath.

"So-o-orry—," the man began again.

"Don't hurt me," Medford said.

The wind picked up, cool and damp, right off the ocean. The man raised his hands in the air and tottered back a couple of steps.

Which was when Medford looked down and saw that the man had hooves.

Which was when Medford fainted.

Remark not upon the Deformities of Others, nor any little blemishes of the Skin nor soil on a Garment. Avert thine eyes if thou must, and talk of Other Matters.

—A Frugall Compendium of Home Arts and Farme Chores by Capability C. Craft (1680), as Amended and Annotated by the Island Council of Names (1718–1809)

M
EDFORD OPENED
his eyes to a cloudless blue sky above. And that horrible, dense, complicated smell everywhere. He closed his eyes again.

If he kept his eyes closed long enough and didn't breathe much, he decided, the world would be back to normal when he opened them again.

He'd never fainted before, although he knew what fainting was. The Book said you should hold Spirits of Treesap under someone's nose when he fainted. He spent a pleasant minute or two wondering whether he still had any under the sink.

Then his brain returned, reluctantly, to the reason he'd fainted. There was a man with horns. There were hooves where there shouldn't be. A Herding Creature, a dog.

He'd never been so close to a dog before. The Shepherds kept to themselves in Island's wild, lonely southeast highlands, and the creatures were of no Use to anyone else.

He'd had no idea they smelled so bad.

He'd never seen a man with horns and hooves. Were there Mainlanders who looked like that? The Trade drivers wore colorful shirts and trousers of a stiff blue material, but otherwise they looked just like Islanders. He'd never heard of one with horns.

The thought came to him like a bucket of pond ice dumped on his head.
Cordelia Weaver. The man in her Unnameable Woven Object. His hat was really horns.

Just like the horn he'd carved into Twig's trencher earlier today.

He wouldn't think about that.

Someone lapped his face.
Please let it be the dog,
he thought. He opened his eyes. The dog backed off a yard or so, sat down, and proudly stank.

The man sat a few feet away chewing on a blade of grass. His staff was on the ground, a handsome piece of Wheelwood with carving Medford wouldn't have minded seeing closer.

The man had his legs crossed, his robe hitched up. This gave Medford a chance to see that in addition to hooves his visitor had the skinniest, hairiest shins he'd ever seen. The shins of a goat, in fact—a Lesser Horned Milk Creature if you felt Bookish.

He wondered how far up the goat parts went. What he could see of the man's upper body looked human.

Except for the horns.

The man took the blade of grass out of his mouth and flicked it away. "Do you feel be-e-etter?" he said. At least that's what it sounded like to Medford.