The Unnameables (14 page)

But the world outside was screaming. Somebody huge
was stomping on the roof. There was a ripping sound as shingles lost their grip. The cabin walls shook.

Over Medford's head the two porch windows rattled, paused, exploded into the room with a shriek, glass raining on the floor, pelting the cookstove. The dog whimpered in short gasps, tried to burrow under Medford. The walking sticks fell over yet again, the shelves behind the cookstove crashed down, Unnameable Objects rollicked across the floor.

Medford grabbed the rolling pin with the eyes and held on as if it could save him.

Smoke belched into the room, blown backward down the chimney. Medford couldn't breathe, couldn't see, couldn't possibly survive, couldn't—

Whup!
Silence. As it had before, the wind died, leaving behind not even a whisper. The dog's whining was the only sound.

Medford was just unfurling himself when a tremendous thud shook the ground outside. The shelf under the far windows gave way and crashed to the floor. The seashell bowl hit the floor squarely, upside down. And all was quiet again.

Medford waited on all fours for what would happen next. Nothing. He crawled out from under the table, still clutching the rolling pin.

The kitchen was a wreck. Objects, Unnameable and Useful alike, littered the floor. All the cabinet doors were
open and a sack of flour had fallen over, coating the counter, the floor, and sundry objects in dusty white.

Medford sank into his chair by the window, then leaped up because of the glass shards all over it. He used his sleeve to wipe it clear and sat down again. The dog sat on his foot, possibly for companionship but more likely to avoid broken glass.

"Uh-h-h. Ow." The Goatman emerged from the other side of the cookstove, hauling himself up on his staff. He limped to the center of the room, surveying the mess.

He stared at Medford. Medford stared back. The dog waggled the tip of her tail at the Goatman but stayed on Medford's foot.

"So-o-orry."

"Me, too," Medford said without thinking.

But he wasn't sorry. He was stunned.

Folks have been restless after them big winds, especially Cordelia Weaver. Martha Shepherd volunteers to keep the peace. We think to rename her Constable.

—Journal of Samuel Carter, 1814

T
HE GOATMAN
pawed at the spilled flour with a hoof.

"I have a te-e-emper."

"I can see that."

"You said I sme-e-ell."

"I know. I'm sorry about that."

"I didn't know I smell."

"You probably don't notice."

"Some of it might be my robe. I spi-i-ill things on it."

"Aye."

"You said something about the ... the na-a-appers."

"Napkins."

"You said you wa-a-ash them. We could wash my robe."

Medford considered his choices. He could stand up,
open the kitchen door, and demand that the Goatman leave Island immediately, taking the dog with him.

Well, maybe he could leave the dog.

But what would the Goatman do if Medford told him to leaver? Whip up the wind until every tree was flat and Island underwater? And what would Medford do, left alone to face scandal and exile without a ... Could you call someone a
friend
if he blew your house half into splinters?

Medford didn't have the brainpower to sort all that out at the moment. He decided to bide his time. "Aye, we could wash your robe. First let's clean up this mess."

Most of the Unnameable Objects were unharmed, although the seagull at the top of the walking stick was missing its beak and a wing tip. They found both on the floor. Medford assured the distraught Goatman that they could be glued back on.

The Book knew, he didn't want the Goatman to become agitated again.

They swept up the glass and flour. Medford nailed the shelves back up and replaced the objects on them. He decided not to paper over this batch of broken windows, at least not until nightfall. Life was bleak enough without covering up more windows.

By midday the cabin was almost back to normal. Medford, who hadn't had breakfast, was feeling hollow by then. So he and the Goatman ate nutcakes and cheese and pie, with the last of the root beer. They drank tea in
silence while Medford considered whether he dared go to Town for supplies.

"
Woof!
"

Medford almost dropped his mug, the noise was so sharp and so loud and so startling. The dog ran to the door, which was open to let in the noontime warmth. She wagged her tail and woofed over and over, louder and louder.

"Ah," the Goatman said. "Vi-i-isitors."

Medford's stomach clenched like a fist. The Goatman went to the door to see what was going on outside. Med-ford didn't move. Couldn't move, to be honest.

"
Woof! Woof! Woof!
"

The dog kept looking up at the Goatman, wondering why he didn't do something to greet or fight off the visitors. So the Goatman did something—he stepped through the door. Encouraged, the dog bounded out, woofing, tail wagging.

"No!" Medford heard Prudy shout. "No! She's friendly!"

The dog yelped, whimpered. Then she yelped again.

"Bweh-eh-eh-eh!" the Goatman shouted.

Medford unrooted himself and rushed to the door.

The Goatman was flat on his back in the yard, struggling, Ward Constable and his brother, Bailey, holding him down. The dog cowered as Deemer Learned bore down on her, dressed as usual in his black Council robes and tricorn.

Prudy was clinging to Deemer's arm. "Let. Go," Deemer said to her. "It. Attacked." He kicked the dog in the belly so hard her paws left the ground.

"Bweh-eh-eh-eh!" the Goatman yelled at the sky.

Afterward, Medford couldn't exactly remember jumping down from the porch and rushing over to the dog. He did remember that she cringed when he went to touch her, as if she were afraid of him.

Deemer's face scared him, towering above him by half a foot, pewter eyes wide-open and furious, thin nostrils flared, skin white as birch bark, stretched so tight in places that it shone. The Councilor had his leg back, ready to kick again.

Medford balled up a fist and hit straight up, catching Deemer under his bony chin.

Pain. Pain, pain, pain, pain. Medford doubled up over his fist, gasping. It had never occurred to him that hitting someone would hurt this much or at all. He thought his hand might be broken.

Deemer staggered backward, more out of surprise than from the force of Medford's blow. Prudy, still attached to Deemer's arm, tried to hold him up but he was too tall for her and she ended up tripping him by mistake. His tricorn fell off. He squashed it when he landed flat on his back.

"Oh, Medford!" Prudy wailed, squatting down to help Deemer. "Oh no. Oh no."

The dog was gone. Medford caught sight of her white tail as it disappeared into the gloom under the trees.

A hand clapped his shoulder and he spun around to see Boyce's unhappy face.

Although Boyce seldom looked cheerful, Medford had never seen him look so pale and tired and sad. "Calm down, boy," Boyce said, giving Medford's shoulder a gentle shake. "It's over now. Better come quietly."

The Goatman was on his hooves, a terrified Constable brother on each side pinning his arms behind his back. With a firm grip, they marched him to Dexter Tanner's delivery wagon, which was waiting in the road. Dexter was on the driver's seat, avidly watching the goings-on but not rushing to participate.

"Goatman!" Medford shouted. "Hey, let him go!" He started to push past Boyce, but his foster father grabbed his arm.

"Leave them be," Boyce said.

"What are they doing?" Medford nursed his hand and watched the Constables boost the Goatman into the back of the wagon. Just hours before he had wanted the Goatman to disappear forever, but now he couldn't remember why.

"They're taking him to Town," Boyce said. "Figure out what he is and what to do with him."

"But—"

"Medford, that creature ain't
human,
" Boyce said, his voice shaking. "He's got horns, by all the Names."

"He's from Mainland, Boyce," Medford said in a small voice.

"Mainland or no, he's part creature and he's got to be gone. This wind ... half the shingles in Town are in the street. Look over there." A huge Pitch Tree had fallen across the road to the north. That must have been the thud Medford had felt after the wind died.

"Trees down all over the place between here and Town," Boyce said. "Boats washed up on the shore."

Medford tried to think of something to say.

"That fellow with the horns," Boyce said. "Deemer said he ... calls the wind somehow."

Medford looked up at his roof. A whole section of shingles was missing.

"They're taking you to Town, too," Boyce said softly.

Medford tried to figure out how many shingles he'd need. Seven, eight maybe.

"Deemer said you've been making ... Useless things."

He could get by with seven shingles if he spaced them out enough.

"Unnameable things, Deemer said." Boyce sounded hoarse.

Medford's gaze met Boyce's. Boyce looked down at his feet. Oddly, seeing him withdraw like that settled Medford's nerves. He felt, suddenly, that he'd been waiting all his life for trouble to come and for Boyce not to be there for him when it did. It was almost a relief not to be waiting anymore: tossed from the net. Set free.

"I'll get the Goatman's staff," Medford said. "Then I'll come."

Boyce stepped aside to let him pass.

Deemer Learned sat up, moaning, Prudy at his side. He looked up as Medford passed. His eyes were chilly and hard, as they had been the day Essence left. Prudy was as white-faced as Deemer. She didn't look at Medford as he passed.

The Goatman was sitting on the floor of the wagon, a nervous Constable on either side. The Constables were trying to stay close enough to keep the Goatman's arms immobile—Deemer must have told them how the wind got started—yet far enough away to keep his horns from whacking them in the neck. They had to keep their heads tilted to one side.
They'll have stiff necks tomorrow,
Med-ford thought.

The Constables were wrinkling their noses. "
Garghk,
" said Bailey, the older brother.

As Medford climbed aboard, the Goatman murmured, "He-e-ey, Fancy Fist. You have a te-e-emper, too."

Boyce climbed in to sit opposite Medford and the Constables. He avoided looking at the Goatman—especially the goat shins, Medford suspected. He dimly remembered feeling the same way about goat shins.
Was it only two days ago?

When Deemer Learned appeared at the tailgate, his arms full of carvings, the whites showed all the way around his eyes. Unlike Boyce, he couldn't seem to look anywhere except at the Goatman.

Deemer handed the Prudy head to Boyce, who set it
down in the middle of a coil of rope. Boyce didn't hold on to the carving any longer than he had to. The Councilor handed off the seabird bowl, the rolling pin with the eyes, then the squirrel bowl. Boyce found safe spots for each of them, too.

"The Constables will come back for the rest," Deemer said. "No wonder you like to watch seabirds, Master Runyuin." He gave Medford an ill-meaning smile, then turned away. "Come, Mistress Learned."

Prudy had her hand on the tailgate, as if she would climb into the back of the wagon. But now she hesitated. Deemer climbed up onto the driver's seat next to Master Tanner. Prudy gave Boyce a wan smile—avoiding Med-ford's eye—and followed.

As Dexter turned the wagon toward Town, Prudy and Deemer sat up straight and stared ahead. The Councilor's black robe had a seam that ran right down the middle of his back, as unwavering as if it were nailed to a flat wall. Next to him, Prudy's braids followed the same unyielding line down her back.

The future, Medford thought, was not bright. And his hand was throbbing. He stole a glance at the Goatman. To his surprise, the Goatman appeared to be asleep, his head drooping on his chest and swinging from side to side with the motion of the wagon.

Ward and Bailey could straighten their necks but took turns being punched lightly in the chest by horn and
globe. As Medford watched, Bailey gingerly touched his forefinger to the globe near him and pushed at it, trying to ease the Goatman's head toward his slightly smaller and much rounder brother.

Medford grinned. He glanced across at Boyce, thinking he'd share the joke. Boyce, however, was transfixed by the eyes on the rolling pin. He kept turning the pin in his hands as if hoping the eyes would disappear forever when they rolled out of sight.

But the eyes just kept rolling back up into view.

Boyce must have sensed that Medford was looking at him, because he put the rolling pin down next to the Prudy head, folded his hands in his lap, and examined them as if they were new to him.

Not wanting to make Boyce feel uncomfortable, Med-ford shifted around to face the back tailgate. Something caught his eye, off to the left. A flash of white in the trees, there for an instant, then gone.

Medford glanced around the wagon. No one else seemed to have noticed that the dog was following them.

But, amazingly, Boyce had taken the squirrel bowl onto his lap. He had the cover off and was examining the little creature curled up inside. He reached in with a long forefinger and barely touched the head, pulled his finger back as if it had bitten him. Then he just held the bowl and gazed deep like a child hunting frogs in a pond.

The trip down Main Street to Town Hall was short
but intense. Someone in a house cried out in fear; a scream echoed from a shop across the road. All the doorways were open, Islanders standing in them or just outside. Angry faces peered out of upstairs windows. Passersby stopped dead on the wooden sidewalks to gape, stony-faced. Every other roof had shingles missing and someone up on it, holding a hammer but not hammering, gawking instead at Dexter's wagon and its occupants.

Medford fought an impulse to lie down on the floorboards and hide.

"Ma!" yelled a tiny voice from a porch. "There's a man with horns!"