The Unnameables (11 page)

Medford heard a faint
whup-whup
from Mainland and
a louder
Whup!
from the north, where there was nothing but empty blueberry lands and open sea. He saw a little herd of whitecaps coming from Mainland, approaching fast.

He leaped to his feet. "No!"

The dog whimpered and ran over to him, squirrel dangling from her mouth.

The Goatman regarded his hand in horror. "I don't understa-a-and."

"Prudy!" Medford shouted. "Get down on the ground!" He flung himself onto the grass. The dog huddled next to him.

A deep moan rolled in from the north. Seabirds screeched to the west. Treetops hissed louder and louder, then louder still. The dog snuggled in closer to his side.

The wind hit from both directions at once, two gusts colliding right over Medford and the dog—he could hardly breathe, the air around him was moving so fast and in so many directions. He thought his cabin roof might come off but could hear nothing except the shrieking and moaning of the wind. It would kill him, this wind, kill them all, pick them up and hurl them into the sea, strip Island of its trees, its houses, its people. It would go on and on and on and on and—

The air went dead. The wind just stopped. The birds in the trees talked and twittered and protested. Everything else was silent.

In the side yard, the Goatman groaned and sat up. He looked around for his staff. The dog unburrowed herself, licked Medford's hand, shook herself from head to tail. She retrieved the squirrel from under Medford's arm.

"Medford," a faint voice said.

Medford ran over to where Prudy was just managing to sit up. She was coated in dust from the road and her braids were frayed. One of them had flipped over onto the wrong side of her head, leaving behind a long, frazzled strand of escaped hair wafting around beside her cheek. He hauled her to her feet.

"What in all the Names was that?" she said. "There was something like it yesterday. And who ... what is that ... that—"

"He came yesterday," Medford said, trying to sound as if horned men were both Useful and commonplace. "In a sailboat. No, that was the day before. He's on a ramble."

"A ramble'?" Prudy said the word as if she'd never heard it before. "Oh, the Names, that's a hat on his head, isn't it? Medford—isn't it? We said it was a hat when we saw it ... on Cordelia's..."

Medford had never felt so miserable in his life. "'Tis not a hat. 'Tis horns. And he has hooves. There's a city with shelters like mountains."

Prudy looked at him as if he'd suggested she call herself Handkerchief or Pickle.

"Prudy, just come over and meet him," Medford said. "He
smells funny and he talks funny, but he's nice. Really. He's a nice man. You hardly notice the horns." The hooves were hard to ignore but he'd let her find that out for herself.

She shook her head, then nodded. Then she shook her head again.

Medford had never seen Prudy look so scared. He'd hardly ever seen her look scared at all.

Earnest was on the porch with his mouth open, holding his wrench up like a weapon, transfixed by the Goatman crawling around looking for his staff.

"Is he from Mainland?" Prudy whispered. "Do they have horns over there?"

Medford didn't answer. As he walked Prudy over to the porch steps, all he could think about was the Prudy head bundled up under his bed with the other carvings.

How would he keep the Goatman from talking about his Useless Objects?

Prudy sat down on the steps, hunched over and gnawing on a braid in a way that would have horrified Capability C. Craft. Earnest, wrench at the ready, finally managed to say something. It sounded like "
errff.
"

"I'll be right back." Medford hastened over to the Goatman, who was on his feet now. The dog waggled her tail at Medford as he approached, the squirrel at her feet with its head gone. Apparently she had decided to eat it herself.

"So-o-orry," the Goatman began.

"I know, I know," Medford said. "We'll talk about it later. I have to tell you ... Those are my friends Prudy and Earnest over there and they can't know ... Please don't say anything about my carvings."

"You wish me to te-e-ell them a lie?" the Goatman said.

"No," Medford said. "I wish you to say nothing."

"Too ba-a-ad," the Goatman said. He hobbled off in Prudy's direction.

"What happened?" Medford asked, catching up. "The wind, I mean. I thought you had to lick your finger or be greatly excited or—"

"Tha-a-at is what I thought, too," the Goatman said. "I have never seen it ha-a-appen like that. This pla-a-ace has unruly winds."

He stopped three feet shy of the steps and stared at Prudy, who was staring at his horns. "I am a goat-ma-a-an...," he began.

"Do. You. Speak. Our. Language," Prudy said, louder than necessary.

"I just was," the Goatman said.

"What. Be. Thy. Name," Prudy said, even louder.

"Prudy," Medford said. "You don't have to—"

"Bweh-eh-eh," the Goatman said. "You ask an i-i-interesting question."

Medford moaned. Prudy flicked a glance at him.

"Prudy," Medford said. "Take a deep breath before he answers. He's fine. He's a nice man. 'Tis fine, just fine."

The Goatman waited politely for Medford to finish. "I have no na-a-ame," he said. He waited for Prudy to react. She didn't. "If you must call me something ca-a-all me the Goatman, since I am the only—"

"Tuh," said Earnest, lowering his wrench hand.

"La-a-ater you may want to address me in other ways. My friend here"—the Goatman started to gesture toward the dog but stopped, one eye on the treetops—"is called Ki-i-iller today, since she caught a small animal when I was standing ri-i-ight—"

"Huh," Prudy said. "No name at all. Huh."

She didn't look upset. In fact, the color was returning to her face.

"Prudy," Medford said. "Don't faint. 'Tis fine."

"Of course 'tis fine," Prudy said. "So he has no name, so what?"

Medford noticed that his mouth was hanging open.

"Oh, Medford," Prudy said, "surely you don't think all the world lives the way we do? That's why we are here and not there." She pointed toward Mainland. "Where some people have horns, I guess."

"You've never talked to that Trade driver with the black whiskers," Earnest told Medford, pocketing his wrench and sitting down next to Prudy. "His name is Humperdinck. 'Tis not much of a leap from that to no name at all."

Medford felt dazed. He would have expected Earnest to be calm in the face of novelty. But was this the
same Prudy who had just said, "Once a Runyuin never a Carver"?

This wasn't New Prudy. It wasn't even Old Prudy. It was New Old Prudy.

The Goatman flopped down on the grass.

The dog did the same.

"So," the Goatman said. "What would you li-i-ike to know about me?"

For those who Trade, some contact with Mainlanders be unavoidable. But beware Useless conversation with foreigners, for the Unnameable hovers nearby.

—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)

S
O THERE SHE WAS
, Mistress Prudence Learned, braider of braids, crusher of shells, speaker of Book Talk, listening to a Nameless, smelly man with horns talk about mountains and goats and the exact dimensions of his last winter shelter.

She was sitting at Medford's kitchen table, having tightly rebraided her hair. She'd wanted to wash her face but the pump was in pieces all over the floor.

'"Tis the diaphragm," Earnest said, waving a leather disk. "The seal has to be good or there's no suction. 'Tis all dried up. I think John Piper has oil for it." He was happier than Medford had seen him since Essence left.

"Can you put it back together?" Medford was surprised a pump had so many parts.

"Don't know," Earnest said, pleased at such a novel and exciting question. "Nobody's let me near one before."

Medford sighed and sank into the chair by the workshop door. In the past forty-eight hours he had experienced joy, despair, fascination, annoyance, and terror—more Useless emotions than he'd known in his entire life. Except for the pump, everything seemed to be all right for the moment. He was exhausted.

While Medford and Prudy made dinner preparations, Earnest put the pump back together. To his delight, he found he had a gasket and three screws left over. He took the pump apart to figure out where they went. Then he assembled it again. "Wont be truly fixed till I get that oil," he said. "But I think 'twill be better than before, now that I've loosened up that leather thing."

Earnest stood back so everyone could see and pumped the handle three times. Nothing came out. He pumped it four more times. Nothing. He pumped it so many times Medford lost count, but not a drop of water appeared.

Earnest beamed. "I'll have to take it apart again," he said.

"Let's eat first," Prudy said.

They ate the last of Medford's bread, with butter and cheese from the springhouse, plus Clayton Baker's pie and beets cooked in water from the stream. Baked eggs for
Prudy, Earnest, and Medford made the meal into a reasonable midday dinner.

"No Egg Fowl in the cupboard?" Prudy asked as she sat down. Medford said nothing, just paid attention to his plate and felt himself go warm.

Prudy kept a fascinated eye on the Goatman as they ate. Although she once again was straight of back, feet Firm and Even, she didn't seem to mind when he coated his robe with a flurry of crumbs and a glaze of honey.

Medford did not give anyone a napkin.

"Hast thou been here before?" Prudy asked the Goatman. "Or ... or thy people?" Medford knew she was thinking of Cordelia Weaver's cloth man but didn't want to talk about it in front of Earnest.

"Others ha-a-ave come here," the Goatman said. "We have ta-a-ales of you."

"Then why have we no tales of you?" Prudy demanded. "I'm surprised Pa hath not heard of you from the radio voices." Because so many of his tools came from Mainland, Twig was one of a handful of Islanders trained to use the Trade radio in Town Hall.

The Goatman shrugged. "We do not show ourselves to many fla-a-atfoots."

"And another thing," Prudy said. "Those winds we've been having the past couple of days—what have they to do with thee?"

At first the Goatman acted as if he hadn't heard her,
picking at a glob of honey on his robe. "They're mi-i-ine," he said at last, barely audible. "I called them."

"Called the winds? That can't be."

The Goatman stuck his finger in his mouth. He looked at Medford. Medford shook his head. The Goatman took his finger out again and dried it on his sash.

"I saw him do it," Medford told Prudy. "He wet his finger and waggled it and the wind came and knocked us over. But then later it came when he got excited about ... something. Today he just waved his hand in the air."

"Tuh," Prudy said. "Thou standst in a windy place and believ'st the wind obeyeth thy behest."

Medford could see that the Goatman had no idea what she'd just said, praise the Book. The last thing they wanted was the Goatman trying to prove himself.

"Pray tell us, Prudy," Earnest said, "when was the last time you saw winds like these, hey? Where do you think they came from?"

Prudy made a face at him, not persuaded.

"Not that there's any Use in them," Earnest added. "Do they ever help anyone?"

The Goatman sighed. "Not me. My uncle, my cousin ... everyone else can call it up to bri-i-ing in the rain or blow the bugs away. The best can shape the clouds or da-a-ance the trees for our pleasure or make a soothing sound on a wa-a-arm night."

"Well, there's certainly some Use in bringing rain," Medford said. But the thought flitted across his brain—
here, then gone—that he would like to see someone shape the clouds and dance the trees.

"No one can call the wind," Prudy said, making up her mind.

Her brother snorted. "Seen many men with horns of late?"

The Goatman contemplated Prudy, who was looking uncommonly stubborn, and apparently decided to ingratiate himself. "You have ni-i-ice hair," he said. "I like it be-e-etter like this than bundled up behind your head that other way."

"Other way?" Prudy said. "What other way?"

Medford didn't know what the Goatman meant, either. Then his spine turned to ice.

The carving of Prudy. With her hair up for Transition.

He tried to think of something to say. He imagined his hair crinkling as frost crept up from the roots.

"The other way—the wa-a-ay you had it—oh." The Goatman looked at Medford, eyes round.

Prudy's eyes were slits, her back a rod of iron. "The way I had it at Transition," she said. "I thought he'd just arrived."

"He," Medford said. "Ah."

Prudy had that hard-eyed look he'd seen on Bog Island, when she was standing over Cordelia Weaver's Unnameable Woven Object. She'd scared him then and she scared him now.

"He was here for Transition?" Prudy said quietly. "That was last spring."

"He wasn't," Medford said. "In truth."

"Then how did he know about my hair?"

Medford breathed in, out, in, out. He kept his eyes on Prudy, arranging his face. What did sincerity look like? "I told him," he said.

"Oh, aye? Then how did he know whether he liked it or not?"

"I said I like it better down."

"That's it," the Goatman said. "Fancy Carver Boy said he li-i-ikes it this way."

"Oh, aye? And exactly how did the topic of my hair ... Fancy Carver Boy? Why dost thou call him that?"

Medford sat down. He had to think this through and there wasn't time.

This was Prudy. On the one hand, she was Deemer Learned's apprentice and had wanted to burn Cordelia's Unnameable Woven Object. Had she told Deemer about that cloth man? Medford didn't even know.

On the other hand, she had no trouble settling down for a chat with a Nameless horned man. She even seemed to like him.

Her stare was so sharp it hurt him. She looked like Deemer, almost.