Freakling (11 page)

But primitive life had its advantages, too. He could tell who was doing what. Everything felt relaxed and friendly and open. Of course, that relaxed feeling probably had something to do with the fact that he was not required to lie, cheat, or pretend to be anything other than what he was.

Getting through the square took a long time because Hannova greeted each person she saw. She stopped at a table laden with rows of vibrant woven scarves. “This is exquisite,” she said, stroking a blue-and-orange wrap of some kind. “Will my sister like it for her birthday?”

“She does,” said Challis, the middle-aged woman who sat behind the table. Taemon had already learned to avoid her. She said odd things and always called him by the wrong name.

“Ah, you’ve come to see your auntie Challis. It was always good to see you, Thayer.”

“Um, you too,” Taemon said.

Hannova looked confused. “What did she call you?”

Taemon whispered to Hannova, “I think she’s got me mixed up with her nephew.”

“Thayer’s my father, not my nephew. And another thing, the pickles next year were excellent. Sour, just the way I like them.”

“Next year?” Taemon asked.

“It’s all in the eyebrows, Thayer.” She hiked her eyebrows and gave him a knowing look. “I’m a Knife, too, you know. They thought I was the True Son once.”

Taemon tried to smile politely. This woman was completely klonkers. And what in the Great Green Earth was that eyebrow thing about? The awkward moment lingered as Taemon turned to Hannova, who gave him a don’t-ask-me look.

“Save the scarf for me, Challis? I’ll be back for it,” Hannova said.

“Yes, you were.” Challis nodded and smiled, nodded and smiled.

They moved on.

“Hoy, Taemon!” the baker called from his stand. “When are you coming back to work for me? The herb loaves haven’t come out right since you left.”

Taemon smiled. “I’m working at the farm now.”

Hannova studied Taemon as if she were reading something into his response.

“You let me know when you decide.” The baker turned back to his customers.

Hannova led Taemon to the tinker’s shop. Taemon had been here a time or two delivering broken farm tools to be mended.

On the walls and from the ceiling hung every imaginable tool, and some that Taemon could never have imagined. Hanging amid the tools were weird pieces of machinery and mysterious gadgets. It reminded him of Da’s workshop, only bigger and more chaotic.

Drigg, the tinker, bent over his work, attaching small metal pieces to each other with a heating device of some kind. He didn’t look up when Taemon came in with Hannova. They waited for Drigg to notice them.

One of the tools near Taemon looked like it was about to fall off its hook. He reached forward to nudge it back in place.

“Don’t touch that!” Drigg yelled, never looking up from his work.

Taemon pulled his hand back. “Sorry,” he said. “I thought it was going to fall.”

“Ever occur to you it might be hanging that way for a reason?” Drigg asked.

“Sorry,” he repeated, flushing.

Drigg switched off his flame tool, examined the swaying tool, then pushed it securely into place. “I said ‘might.’” He glared at Taemon, switched the flame on, and turned back to his work.

They waited.

Taemon studied the half-built — or perhaps half-disassembled — projects lying around. Scattered on the workbench were bolts and rings, small metal rods about the length of his pinky finger, a few springs, and the leavings of a sandwich. A slate hanging above the bench caught his eye, and he tried to make out the chalked sketches. It was an engine of some kind, and Taemon found himself instantly picturing the finished product.

Abruptly Drigg turned off his flame and hung a grimy rag over the slate. “Something I can do for you?” he grumbled.

Hannova made the introductions.

“Ah, yes. I remember you,” Drigg said. “You’re the one who redesigned Bynon’s plow. Like working with tools, do you?”

“I’m not sure. I never really have before.” His eyes wandered back to the slate. “What’s the engine for?” he asked.

Drigg hesitated. “Engine?”

Taemon pointed. “If you’re going to use cylinders, seems like you could find a better angle. It’s for a byrider, right?”

“A byrider?” Hannova put her fists on her hips. “Have you been scavenging again? We’ve had this talk before, Drigg. No one’s allowed past the drop-off station. Not even you.”

“It was only a bit past. This little beauty was lying on the side of the road, begging for me to rescue it.” Stepping to the corner of the workshop, Drigg pulled off a tarp to reveal a rusted byrider, the old kind with two wheels, not the unisphere that was popular now.

“It’s in rough shape,” Taemon said.

“That’s where I come in. Building a corn-fueled engine for it.” He studied Taemon. “I could use your help, but only if it’s what you want. Spending my days with a surly teenager isn’t on my list of favorites.”

Surly teenager? Is that how Drigg saw him? And how was that any worse than a cranky tinker? Taemon wondered if he would ever manage to fit in anywhere.

“Nothing’s decided yet,” Hannova said, leading Taemon out the door. “We’ll let you know.”

Once outside, she took the path that followed the river. They walked for a few minutes in silence. Taemon’s head was filled with the sketches he’d seen on the tinker’s slate. Already he’d thought of three different changes he’d make to those plans.

“Drigg had a point back there,” Hannova said.

“About me being surly?”

“You’re not surly,” she said. “I’m talking about knowing what you want. Have you figured that out yet, Taemon?”

He hadn’t figured that out yet. Not really. That would require settling on one particular future for himself, which he was not ready to do. He looked down at his feet.

Hannova nodded. “I know it all seems pretty overwhelming. But you’re a hard worker and you don’t cause trouble. I think you’ll be happy and successful whatever path you choose.”

Taemon almost laughed. Didn’t cause trouble? In his mind, he tallied all the troubles he’d caused. When he was four and first learning psi, he set his mind to wandering and accidentally dismantled Da’s antique clock. He’d almost murdered his brother. He’d failed his parents by not hiding his disability. He’d let down his only friend. He’d hurt and cheated and disappointed and lied to everyone, including himself.

What he really wanted was to do something right for a change. And if there was anything he had a remote chance of doing right, it was building an engine.

“I’d like to work with Drigg,” Taemon said decisively.

“Excellent. You can have tomorrow off for your birthday and start with Drigg the day after.”

They had arrived at Taemon’s new home. He stood in front of the door and reminded himself to use the doorknob. Would he ever get used to life without psi?

The next morning, breakfast was unusually quiet. Typically there was a lot of chatter and flubbing around. Enrick and Marka, the married couple that had taken him in, bustled around the kitchen, making sure Taemon and all five of their little ones got fed and everyone had what they needed for school.

In the city, orphans were sent to group homes run by the church. That’s what he’d expected in the colony as well, but instead, he’d been taken in by Marka, who was the farmer’s daughter. She and her family had been kind to him.

Marka and Enrick’s house was a busy place with five young children, two rabbits, a dog, and a fluctuating number of cats. Somebody’s milk always spilled. Somebody’s eggs usually burned. Yesterday the dog had gotten to the butter dish and licked it clean.

Not today. Today all the little ones sat still. No one teased. No one asked for more cheese. Everyone was eating their breakfast — all too calmly.

Taemon shoveled eggs into his mouth with the pokey thing called a fork. With the last bite in his mouth, he looked up from his plate at the others seated around the table. He saw a twinkle in Marka’s eye, a smile playing around Enrick’s mouth. The youngest boy started to laugh, but his sister clapped her hand over his mouth. What under Skies was going on?

From behind, someone slapped a blindfold over his eyes. Someone else held him to his chair, and still another someone wrapped him with what felt like strips of cloth.

A storm of laughter blew into the room.

“What? Who?” Taemon struggled, but it was mostly pretend. He could tell this was some kind of prank.

“It’s your birthday!”

Taemon recognized the voice of Jad, a kid he’d met while working at the farm. He must be the one tying him to the chair. Kind of a strange birthday custom. Still, it was nice of him to celebrate Taemon’s birthday. Jad was a couple of years older and crazy about a girl who worked at the clothier’s shop. Taemon didn’t have a group of friends in the colony yet. But maybe that could change.

“And not just any birthday.” A girl’s voice. That had to be the clothier shopgirl, Vangie.

“Thirteen is an unlucky number.” A different girl’s voice. Now who could that be?

“So I’m being arrested for turning thirteen?” Taemon said.

The little kids giggled. “Arrest Taemon! Arrest Taemon!” they chanted.

“Thanks a lot,” Taemon said. “Is this what you do for people on their birthdays? Take them into custody?”

“Just for special cases, like yours,” Jad said. “You’ve had to do more work in your four weeks at the colony than most of us have to do in the first four years after we turn thirteen. So we are officially kidnapping you for the day. Everything’s arranged. No work today, no chores.”

“You might have told me
before
I made my bed,” Taemon grumbled.

One of the little ones giggled.

“We’re going on an outing,” Vangie said. “A picnic.”

The kids’ chanting quickened and increased in pitch. “Picnic! Picnic!”

“Sorry, only big kids get to go,” Enrick said. “The rest of you have school.”

“Aaw.”

“I’m a big kid.”

“Me too. I big!”

“Somebody get that dog away from the butter!” Marka said.

Taemon’s chair was lifted and removed from the din. The chair dipped and lurched as they took him out of the house. If he hadn’t been tied down, he would have fallen off by now. He couldn’t help thinking that it’d be a whole lot smoother if done with psi.

Outside, Taemon was untied and the blindfold removed. The first thing he saw was a girl’s face. She smiled. Her face looked familiar, though he was sure they’d never met. He must have passed her on the street sometime, he decided.

Something else caught Taemon’s attention. “Holy Rain! You got the hauler? I thought Bynon said no.”

Jad grinned. “Cha, well, Bynon has a soft spot for the new kid. When I told him it was your birthday, he said we could have it for the whole day.”

Taemon was beginning to understand what this birthday outing was all about. For the past week, Jad had been trying to get Bynon, the farm manager, to let him take the hauler so he could take Vangie for a drive. Taemon’s birthday was the excuse Jad had needed to get the hauler.

Jad turned to Taemon. “You and Amma hop in the back.”

Which meant Jad and Vangie would ride inside the cab. Cha, Jad had a plan, all right. Taemon wondered how Amma felt about this. If she was uneasy, she didn’t show it. She climbed into the back of the hauler, brushed the hay aside, and settled herself contentedly on an upturned bucket.

Well, Skies, why not? What else did he have to do on his birthday? Taemon climbed in after her. “Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise,” Jad said, and swung himself behind the wheel.

As they bumped and sputtered slowly along the dirt road, Taemon thought there must be a way to cut down the noise on that corn-fueled engine. He’d helped Bynon change the oil on the hauler last week, and he knew the engine could use a lot of work. He pictured it in his mind, mentally diagramming ways to make it run smoothly.

About the time he realized he should probably say something to Amma, she spoke up.

“So today’s your birthday,” Amma said, half yelling over the noise of the hauler. “One Quake. That’s pretty lucky. If you were born the day before, it would have been Thirteen Knife.”

Thirteen Knife was the most unlucky day of the calendar. Taemon nodded. “And I was born just after midnight.”

Amma laughed. “That must have scared the wits out of your mother.”

“That’s not hard. She’s a Rabbit, so she’s jumpy to begin with. What’s your birth sign?”

“Water,” said Amma. “I always hated it. So boring. Something more glamorous would’ve been nice, like Flower or Jaguar.”

“Water can be powerful.” Taemon thought of his battle with the tide in the sea cave.

“Sure, if you enjoy tidal waves or erosion.” She shoved him a little, which caught him off guard. Was she mad? When she chuckled, he realized she was joking with him. Skies, he’d never get used to all these hands-on emotions.

He laughed it off. “Definitely not boring.”

The ride was long, and the wind was cold, but it didn’t matter. Amma was easy to be with. They talked until the half yelling made them hoarse. Then they played a ridiculous game to see who could spit a piece of hay the farthest. Amma won every time.

“It must be getting close to noon,” Taemon said. “Do you know where we’re going?”

Amma smiled shyly. “It’s this thing Vangie and I like to do. We call it frivolics. We make up these little . . . adventures. Usually it involves some silly little skit, you know, like pretending we’re someone else.”

“You mean like acting?” Each year a group of youngsters put on a performance at the temple, reenacting Nathan’s flight from the Republik and his founding of Deliverance. He wondered if there were similar plays put on in the colony.

“Sort of, but we make it up as we go. No scripts or anything. We work out a general idea ahead of time, but that’s all.”

“So what’s the general idea this time?” Taemon asked.

“This one is Vangie’s idea, and she wants it to be a surprise.” Amma bit her lip. “I promised not to tell.”

Taemon faked outrage. “All right, that’s it.” He picked up another piece of hay. “All or nothing. If I win this one, you have to tell me. And if you win . . .”