Ambergate (8 page)

My legs were weak from lying around so long, and it was difficult to keep up. Erland was disappearing into a sea of reeds;
at my feet, silver water oozed over the shingle. “Wait!” I wailed.

He halted at once. His contrite face looked back at me.

“For a moment I forgot,” he said, and held out his hand to guide me.

I should talk to him in an interesting way
, I thought,
then he won’t forget me
. But I didn’t know what to say. I knew he wasn’t one for idle conversation; he would be more used to birds and fish than
girls. The silence grew heavy between us, but Erland seemed content with it, looking ahead, his face lifted to the sun. After
we had been walking on firmer shingle for some time, I could bear it no longer.

“Where do you fish?”

“By the river or in the creeks,” he said, still gazing ahead.

“Sometimes I cast from the bank, sometimes take the punt out.”

“What’s a punt?”

“A long boat, flat-bottomed. You pole it through the water. My father uses it when he cuts reeds for thatch.”

I stared about, seeing nothing but tall grasses and splinters of still water. “Where are the creeks?”

“You come on them suddenly. The river’s not far off, running near parallel with the sea. There’s more water than land in the
Wasteland.”

“Gadd cuts the reeds in summer?”

Erland nodded. “He’s only two months at most to cut and spread. If I’m here, I help him.”

“Spread?”

“You spread the reeds out to dry them,” he said patiently. “You have to dry them in the open air. He’ll harvest by moonlight
too, if the night’s clear.”

“What does he do all winter?” I said, nonplussed.

He gave a sudden laugh. “Struggles to keep himself and the animals alive. It’s hard, here on the Wasteland. If he’s time to
spare, he weaves baskets and matting.”

“And you? What do you do?”

“It’s hard enough making a living for one, let alone two. My work takes me elsewhere. But if I’m here, I’ll sail the dory
down to Poorgrass Kayes for him—sell his work in the market.”

I did not want to think about Poorgrass Kayes. My legs ached; there was no sign of the river. “Let me sit a minute,” I begged.

Erland nodded, and I sank down on the bright turf, between cushions of pale pink thrift. The water around us mirrored the
reeds: I could see the sky reflected, a gull winging overhead. I leaned forward, parting the reeds, and suddenly saw a face
gazing back: large eyes; pallid cheeks; long, matted hair.
I’m ugly now
, I thought.

Erland sat down beside me and unfastened his leather bag. He took out a long mahogany box. “This was my grandmother’s toiletry
box.”

With great reverence he showed me what was lying on the faded silk lining inside: two yellowing lace collars; some faded hair
ribbons, neatly rolled; a little waxy square of what looked like soap sitting in a glass bowl; a tortoiseshell comb. He held
the box out to me. “Borrow it, if you like.”

“Are you sure?” I said, touched.

“She’d like to think of it being used.”

I took out the glass bowl and sniffed at the soap: it still contained the faint, pleasurable fragrance of lavender. When I
tried to fit the bowl back in, something was stuck in the lining, something that pricked me: a sharp point sticking out. When
I pulled it, more and more came out. It was a single feather, long and white, the barbs crushed. A shiver went through me.
I laid the feather quickly down on the grass and touched the amber stone at my neck.

Erland picked the feather up, holding it to the sun. “A swan’s feather.”

“You dare touch it?” I saw he wore no amulet himself.

He smiled. “My grandmother always watched the swans at Murkmere.”

“Murkmere? But that’s where I came from!” It slipped out carelessly. I hadn’t meant to tell him where I’d lived—Erland or
his father.

“I know,” said Erland. He was still looking at the feather, smoothing the barbs with his careful fingers.

“How do you know?” I demanded, bewildered and suddenly apprehensive.

“I know because that’s where we met, you and I.”

I shook my head. “We’ve never met before.”

He laid the feather down and turned to me, his eyes on mine: eyes, deep-set. For the first time I noticed their color: dark
gray, almost black. “Don’t you recognize me, Scuff?”

I shook my head again, fiercely; I was frightened now.

“I lived at Murkmere too,” he said softly, “when I was a
little boy. One day by the mere you rescued me. You took me home. Don’t you remember?”

I did remember.

“The little lost boy was you?” I said in disbelief. I stared at the youth beside me: long limbs and fair, stubbled beard,
the little child long gone. And yet there was an ageless quality about his face.

He nodded and gave a small smile. “The other girl wanted me to live with the swans, I believe!”

“That was Leah. She was a strange girl.” I hesitated; I stared at him still. “But you are older than I am. The child I rescued
then was young, younger than I was by a good deal.”

“Haven’t we told you that time passes differently in the Wasteland?”

“How can it?” I said. “It must obey the same laws, surely?”

“This is not a place for formal measurements, for mechanical clocks or even sand timers,” he said curtly. I thought I’d irritated
him. “I feel I’ve spent many different lifetimes here.”

“But that can’t be so,” I said, half smiling.

“You know nothing,” he said, suddenly angry. “You think I’d lie to you?”

“No, no,” I stammered, taken aback. “Of course not.”

“Well, then. Believe it.”

After a while, I said timidly, for I could see he was brooding on it, “But if you lived at Murkmere, why did you leave?”

There was a long silence. I thought he was still angry but then saw he was mulling over his words. “My father has told me
that after my grandmother died, I wandered off—
perhaps to look for her, he thinks. I don’t remember. He searched the estate, begged Silas the steward to order the keepers
to drag the mere, but Silas refused. I don’t know what brought my father here to search for me in the Wasteland.”

“You were here?”

He nodded.

“And you never went back?”

“We never went back. My father wouldn’t work for Silas anymore. He’s always been good with his hands. Somehow he managed to
make a life for both of us here.”

“But—weren’t you ever lonely?” I couldn’t imagine it. I thought of the bustle and chatter of Murkmere in the days of the Master,
all the servants rushing in and out of the steamy kitchen quarters.

He grimaced. “I never missed the company of other children, but my father made me go to the village school. Each day I’d have
to leave the reeds and water to go and study books.”

“Then we must have had the same teacher, for I know Miss Jennet, who taught in the village. She now lives at Murkmere and
has taught me!” It gave me pain to think of Miss Jennet.

“She was a fine teacher,” said Erland, “though I was no scholar. She would box my ears.”

“Mine too!” I said, forgetting my bitter thoughts. We smiled at each other.

“You look nice when you smile,” he said. “Not frightened anymore.”

“I’m always frightened,” I said in a low voice. “The world is too big.”

“Is it the birds that frighten you? You wear an amulet.”

“Most people wear amulets,” I retorted. “Are you so brave you’d defy the birds, or aren’t you a believer? Did you never attend
Devotion and listen to the scriptures in the Divine Book, never learn the
Table of Significance?” He is heathen!
I thought.

“How can any bird mean wickedness?” he said. “They are all the Almighty’s creatures. They behave as their natures guide them,
and He has given them those.”

“Oh,” I said. I thought a minute. “Do you believe He has given us our natures as well?”

“Indeed He has.”

But mine is a bad nature
, I thought.
He can’t have given that to me
.

“You look frightened again,” said Erland. “Is it because you think they will catch you?”

He gently touched the brand mark on the inside of my bare forearm; it was showing where I had rolled up the sleeve of my blouse
in the warmth of the sun. I snatched my arm away at once and bent my head so that my hair hid my face.

“I’ve noted it before, I couldn’t help it,” he said. There was such compassion in his voice I pushed my hair away and looked
at him.

“I came to Murkmere from one of the Orphans’ Homes in the Capital,” I said at last. “In the Homes they brand the children
when they first arrive.”

He looked grim. “They should not do such a thing to any child.”

He was so innocent, I thought. “It’s to identify us. They can reclaim us to work for them without wages if we run away later
and are found by the Capital’s Enforcers. It’s called—Recompense.” I stumbled over the word. “They see it as a return for
our keep when we were small. You can never escape if you’ve been in a Home.”

In silence we looked at my scar, a raised whiter mark on my white skin—the number 102, and a square to show I was from the
Gravengate Home—then I covered it up again. But I had not minded showing it to him.

“You escaped,” said Erland.

“I was sold to Silas, the steward at Murkmere. Sometimes they’ll sell off the children as servants. I was small and weak.
They thought I wouldn’t be any use to them.”

“So that’s why they’re looking for you? For their Recompense?”

His eyes were gazing into mine, clear, concerned. I would have to tell him the truth, or some of it; it would not be right
to keep silent. “I’m putting you and Gadd at risk,” I burst out. “I’m a wanted criminal, Erland! Soldiers of the Lord Protector
are looking for me. They’ve traced me after all this time. If I’m found they’ll take me back to the Capital and try me in
the Courts. I’ll get the death penalty, most like!”

He was silent; I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

“You’ll be sorry now that you took me in,” I said in a small voice. “Shall you tell Gadd?”

He shook his head. “He may know already—he knows most things. We looked after you because you needed us, not merely because
you rescued me long ago.”

He paused. “I think my grandmother took a fancy to you. She often talked about you afterward—the girl with no name.”

“You must wonder at my wickedness,” I said nervously. “You must want to know about my crime.”

Erland looked away from me, at the soft feathery tops of the reeds. “Let the Almighty judge what’s wicked and what’s not,”
he said. “It’s not for men.”

The Almighty has allowed me to survive in spite of my crime
, I thought. A tiny flicker of hope stirred inside me. Then I said, “But it’s men who make laws. And I’ve broken the law,
and so I must be punished. That’s why the soldiers came for me.”

“There are no soldiers here,” said Erland.

“Does anyone ever come?”

“Sometimes we find the drowned bodies of vagrants in the marshes. Bands of them sometimes group near the river in summer.
But the Lawman keeps the only chart of the Wasteland and the ground is always changing. You are safe.”

Later, when Erland took me back to the shelter and left me there to rest, I heated water and washed my hair with the soap,
its lather still richly creamy and soft. Then I combed my clean hair free of tangles.

It took a long while, but when it was done I sat in the afternoon sun until my hair was dry. The evening clouds were darkening
overhead when I went back inside to stoke up the fire for supper. Canvas sail bags were lying against the wall. One had rolled
too close to the fire for safety, so I picked it up to put with the others.

It was strangely soft. Curious, I looked inside the neck of the bag. At once I flung it away from me and clutched my amber.
I had to sit in Gadd’s chair until I grew calm. Feathers.

But they were beautiful, not threatening, those silver-white feathers, like the single feather in Erland’s grandmother’s box.
I knew the sail bag contained the swanskin I remembered seeing in their cottage long ago. Erland cared nothing for blasphemy;
he had kept the swanskin in memory of her. All he’d said to me was true.

Erland returned before Gadd, as I was setting bowls on the table. I had recovered, was in control of myself, the bag safely
with the others.

He stared at me. “You look different.”

I’d forgotten my new-washed hair. I felt awkward under his gaze and bent my head so my hair swung around my face. “Do I?”

He came across to me and gently, tentatively, took a strand from my face. “It shines in the firelight,” he said, as if he
held a treasure between his fingers.

I looked up at him, at his solemn, old-young face, the
slight frown between his brows that I was beginning to know so well. I looked into his eyes and saw the surprise and wonder
in them as he looked back at me.

Something altered in the air between us.

“I shan’t call you Scuff anymore, but Silky,” he whispered.

A footfall made us turn. Gadd was standing silently in the doorway, watching us.

From then on I went with Erland into the Wasteland each day.

He taught me to fish in the creeks, to cast and ply the line. He took me deep into the spring reed beds, a shifting, secretive
sea of tawny green, broken by willow and alder. The seed heads were higher than my head; I could hear nothing but the wind
sighing through them.

Sometimes we saw swans drifting on the hidden pools.
Such mystical creatures belong here
, I thought as I watched their lazy, almost sensuous motion through the water.

“Don’t they mind us coming?” I asked Erland.

“They’ll be building their nests soon,” he whispered. “They might attack a stranger if one went too near. But they’re used
to me.” He gazed at them under his heavy brows, his face softening. “The cob and pen court again each spring, you know.”

“Then it’s right that swans should signify True Love,” I whispered back, standing close to him.

Something curled into my mind, a dream or memory, faint as smoke. A flash of white, then a feeling, nothing more, of
wings beneath me, lifting…. For a second it was with me, then it had blown away.