The Unnameables (20 page)

Prudy scribbled on the chalkboard. "Is it this?"

"Ye-e-es," the Goatman said. "Tha-a-at's it."

"I knew it," Prudy whispered fiercely. "I just knew it."

"What did you write?" Medford asked.

Silence.

"Prudy?"

"I wrote
Learned,
" she said, sounding as if her throat were sore. "'Tis Deemer's house. He must have moved the journals to his house when I took over for Essence. He doesn't trust me."

"He told you a ta-a-anner," the Goatman said.

"Told me a what?" Prudy said.

"I'll explain later," Medford said.

"We have to go over there." Earnest jumped down from the table.

"And do what?" Medford asked.

"I don't know. Something."

Medford sat down on the table, buried his head in his hands. This night just kept getting longer and longer. Prudy sat down and leaned against him, smelling like grass.

"Come on, you two," Earnest said, helping the Goatman down from the table.

"Aye," said Old Prudy. "Come on, Medford. Lets see what Prune Face is up to."

They crept outside, rounded the corner of the building ... and had a shock. A light shone through one of the windows on Town Hall's first floor.

"That's the radio room," Earnest whispered.

"Was somebody in there all this time?" Medford whispered.

"They would have heard us," Earnest said. "Someone probably just left a lantern burning."

"That's not very safe," Prudy said. "All our history is upstairs in the Archives. Imagine if those journals burnt up. It would be like burning the people themselves."

"No, it wouldn't," Earnest whispered. Medford could almost hear him rolling his eyes. "People are people. Paper is just paper."

"How canst thou say such a thing, Earnest?" Prudy said. "Those journals live, they breathe—"

"Bweh-eh-eh."

"Can we talk about this later?" Medford said, eyeing the lighted window uneasily.

"Hmph," Prudy said.

The world was fast asleep, not a breath stirring.
It has to be past midnight,
Medford thought. The starlight was brighter outside than it had been in Town Hall, but they still hung on to the Goatman and one another. Life just seemed safer that way.

ODDLY, A LIGHT
was burning at Deemer's house, too.

"Now, I
know
Master Learned didn't just leave a lantern going," Prudy said. "He's always telling me never to leave a room without blowing everything out."

Sure enough, the Councilor's dark shape crossed in front of the window.

"What now?" Medford whispered as they stood just outside the pool of light from the window, clutching their stacks of red journals. The window was too high to see in from close up.

Earnest set his journals down on the ground and dropped to his hands and knees under the window. "Climb on, Medford," he whispered.

"Bweh-eh-eh," the Goatman said softly.

The Goatman was right. This was a terrible idea. What if Deemer looked up and saw a scared, white face at the window? "Might as well be banished for a Fleece Creature as a Newborn Fleece Creature," Medford muttered.

Balancing on someone's back turned out to be harder than he'd expected. Earnest kept shifting his weight
around to make himself more comfortable. Medford tried to grab the window frame without bumping into anything or rattling the glass. Nothing kept him from teetering back and forth like a Waterman ashore.

"Uhhhh," Earnest groaned softly.

"Shhhh," Prudy whispered. "Stay still, Earnest. He can't be that heavy."

"So you say."

Through the thick window glass, Medford saw a wavy-looking Deemer Learned kneeling in front of his parlor stove, stoking the fire. The logs were flat and odd looking. Was Deemer burning shingles?

The Councilor reached into a crate next to him and grabbed another ... shingle?

And at that moment Medford knew exactly what was going into the stove. He gasped and instinctively stepped backward in surprise.

"What are you doing?" Earnest whispered desperately.

Medford teetered, tried to keep hold of the window frame, scrabbling at it with his hands. He lost his grip and windmilled his arms in a last-ditch effort to stay upright.

Don't yell,
he told himself.
Don't yell Don't yell. Don't...

He hit the ground. He didn't yell. Neither did Earnest.

They didn't have to. "Bweh-eh-eh-eh!" the Goatman said. He sort of whispered it, but he sort of didn't.

"Up against the house!" Earnest hissed. All four of them flung themselves into the darkness under the window and huddled there.

The window opened. "Who's out there?" Deemer said. He went silent, listening. The window rattled shut. They heard quick footsteps fading toward the front of the house.

"Back porch!" Prudy whispered.

They scrambled around the corner and into the darkness under Deemer's back stoop. Medford had to rush back and retrieve his stack of journals, and while he felt around for them on the ground he heard the front door open. He scuttled around the corner and under the stoop as Deemer's feet pounded down the front steps.

Silence. A twig snapped.

"Where art thou?" Deemer said. Another twig snapped. "I see thee there."

But Medford didn't think Deemer really saw them. His voice was too far away. Several minutes passed in silence. Then another twig snapped, so close Medford almost cried out. Deemer mounted the steps over their heads.

"I see thee out there in the woods," Deemer said, above them. A bird twittered and some small beast chattered back. Dry leaves rattled in a sudden breeze.

They heard the door open and close.

"He tells a lot of ta-a-anners," the Goatman whispered.

"What if he goes to Town Hall?" Prudy breathed. "What if he sees you're gone?"

"He won't," Medford said. "He'll hide what he's doing before he goes out again."

Because those weren't shingles Deemer was burning. They were red journals.

I am going to knit sweaters. I am going to invent a new stitch that will fight the wind. And I am going to make Boyce Carver laugh if it is the last thing I do.

—Journal of Alma Weaver, 1970

"H
E WOULD NEVER
," Prudy said.

"He is right now," Medford said.

They had crept into the woods near Deemer's house so Medford could tell Prudy and Earnest what he'd seen.

"That's our history he's got in there," Prudy said.

"Not for long," Earnest said.

"Words on pa-a-aper. What a bad idea," the Goatman said. "Nobody can burn a tale you te-e-ell out loud."

"We have to make him stop," Earnest said.

"Oh, aye," Medford said. "We'll just march in and tell him to stop it right now. I'm sure he'll do exactly what we say."

"He'll call the Constables and hide the journals," Prudy said bitterly. "He'll say Medford stole them and nobody will believe what Medford saw him doing. Medford will be gone by noon tomorrow."

He would be gone anyway no matter what they did. Medford leaned back against a tree and stared up through the leaves at the starry sky. It would be the same sky on Mainland, the same stars. They couldn't take that away from him, at least.

And then he came to a decision that astonished him. "I'm going to be gone anyways," he said. "We might as well try to save those journals."

"Medford," Prudy said. "We won't let you go."
No Book Talk. Praise the Book.

"We may not be able to stop it," Earnest said. "I think Medford's right. We should save what we can."

"But how? We can't just rush in there."

"Why not? There are three of us."

"Four," the Goatman said.

"Four of us, beg pardon," Earnest said. "We could grab the journals and run."

"But we won't have time to read them, or even to hide them," Medford said. "Deemer will have the Constables on us as soon as we're out the door."

"Bweh-eh-eh. Better if you lure him awa-a-ay first."

"Lure him away?" Medford said. "What do you mean?"

"Whe-e-en you want to milk a goat, you wave fodder at her, lure her to you. Except you lure this Prune Fa-a-ace away from you instead. Then he won't see who took the words on paper."

Earnest snorted. Prudy shushed him. "But what do we have for ... for fodder?"

"You ha-a-ave me."

Huh,
Medford thought.
It could work.
"You'll lure him out the front, we'll go in the back. Is that what you mean?"

"Bweh-eh-eh. And then I'll run awa-a-ay."

"How can you run when you can barely walk?" Earnest asked. Medford had been wondering the same thing.

"I fa-a-all forward," the Goatman said. "But I don't hi-i-it the ground."

Medford tried to imagine what that would be like. "How do you stop running?" he asked.

"I hit the ground."

We'll just have to trust him.
"And we'll take the journals to ... to where?" Medford asked. "Someplace nearby would be best. Your parents' house, Prudy? Your ma will be up." He could see her stiffen, silhouetted against the starlight. "Sorry, but she will be."

"They won't be any help anyways," Earnest said. "They don't have any backbone."

"How canst thou say such a thing, Earnest?" Prudy said. "They be thy parents."

"Oh and you don't think exactly the same as me? Look how they—"

"If you two don't hush up we won't be taking anything anywhere," Medford said. "Well, I guess there's always Boyce."

As best he could in the pitch black under the trees, Medford drew a map in the dirt so the Goatman could meet them at Boyce's. And so he'd know how to lead Deemer in the opposite direction.

The Goatman stumped off to the front of Deemer's house, leaving Medford, Prudy, and Earnest huddled in the woods. It was chilly, the ground damp under them. Something rustled in the fallen leaves. Rigging clanged on a boat in the harbor.

"Bweh-eh-eh-eh!" The silence shattered. The Goatman must have been standing in Harbor Lane. "Bweh-eh-eh! Bweh! Bweh!"

"This is it," Medford whispered. "Get ready."

Deemer's front door banged open. "I see thee, thou creature!" Deemer yelled, pounding down his front steps. "Get thee back here! Constables! Constables!"

Medford hoped the Goatman didn't hit the ground too soon. He hugged his armload of journals so hard the bindings bit into his arm. He heard Deemer pounding down the wooden sidewalk, heard a faint "Bweh-eh-eh" from beyond the Town Hall.

"Now!" Medford whispered. "Now!"

Crouching down—for no good reason except that it felt safer—the three of them ran to Deemer's back door, tumbled inside. In his sitting room were two crates of red and brown journals, one of them half empty. A stack of red journals sat beside the stove. Prudy whipped off her jacket and piled those journals into it as if it were a bag.

"Give me your books from Deemer's desk," she whispered. "I'll carry them. Earnest, you're strongest. You take the full crate. Medford, you take the other crate."

Earnest hoisted the full box. "Oof," he said. "How did Prune Face carry this?"

Medford couldn't imagine. The half-full crate was heavy enough.

"Hurry!" Prudy said.

They hustled out Deemer's front door and headed for Boyce's house, three blocks north and east. In the distance, well south of Town Hall, they heard a "Bweh-eh-eh-eh." Medford hoped Deemer hadn't given up on pursuing the Goatman.

They scuttled across Harbor Lane to the footpath that led to the junction of the Waterman and Harborside roads. The Waterman houses were silent and dark. Med-ford wondered what time it was, how long before dawn. How long before Deemer caught up with them.

How long before Earnest's wheezing woke everyone up.

"Canst thou run quieter, Earnest?" Prudy panted.

Earnest took the excuse to halt for a minute. "You try ... carrying ... a full crate of ... books ... and see how quiet you are."

Medford had a stitch in his side but didn't want to admit it, since he had only half a crate. They took a brief rest and then hurried down Harborside Road toward Boyce's. They crossed the Wharf Road, saw the house up ahead.

"Wait." Medford panted. "Stop. Something's not right."

Boyce's house was lighted up as if it were suppertime. First that light in Town Hall, then Deemer's sitting room, now this. What was going on around here?

Could Deemer already have figured out what they'd done? Had he awakened Boyce? Was he waiting there now, hoping they'd turn up?

"You two stay here," Medford said. "No point getting you banished, too. I'll see what's happening." He slipped his crate in among Boyce's Hardy Leaf Crops while Earnest and Prudy leaned against a tree and caught their breath.

He heard a voice as he crept up Boyce's back stoop, avoiding the creaky second step. But it wasn't Deemer talking, it was Boyce. Medford leaned out over the railing so he could see in Boyce's double kitchen windows. Sure enough, Boyce was sitting at the table under the windows, a tea mug at his elbow. Something was on the table in front of him, something Medford couldn't make sense of at first.

Boyce seemed to be talking to it.

It was large, wooden. For one horrible moment, Med-ford thought it was one of the older Unnameable carvings that he kept on the rafters of his cabin. The carving was about two feet tall, looked like a figure sitting in a chair. He couldn't remember carving anything like that.

Boyce reached out and gently touched the carving with one finger, stroked it. Medford leaned closer, almost tipping himself over the railing, trying to figure out what he was looking at.

It was a woman, he could see that now. She was sitting in a rocking chair. She was dressed in knee breeches, leaning so far back her chair might fall over, her eyes on the sky and her mouth open in huge, lung-filling laughter. She had knitting needles in her hands, a sweater half made. But her hands were in her lap, forgotten in glee.

The truth struck him so hard he gasped out loud. That wasn't any carving of his. It was a carving of Boyce's.

Medford was exhausted. He was scared. He was hungry and thirsty.