The Unnameables (24 page)

"Hear, hear," Freeman said.

"There is no question, of course, that the horned man be dangerous and must leave," Verity said. "The only question is Master Runyuin."

"If it helps, Mistress Head," Deemer said, "there is the matter of Master Runyuin's wanton behavior last night. Setting aside his other infractions, the fact that he secured the release of this creature shows how little he values our safety."

Medford kept his gaze on Deemer, determined to keep his face bland even though he could feel each Councilor's gaze boring into him.

"A Trade voyage is due to depart at eleven o'clock," Deemer continued. "Two hours from now. Councilor Trade"—he bowed to Freeman, who graciously bowed back—"says the boat can take passengers. I suggest we send Master Runyuin and his creature off today, after trussing up the creature so that he cannot call the wind."

"Bweh-eh-eh!"

"Best place for him," Freeman said heartily. "Such horned men, of course, be commonplace on Mainland."

"Oh, aye?" Comfort Naming said. "Then why have I never heard talk of them?"

Freeman chuckled. "Mistress Naming is aware of little beyond the end of her needle. As the acknowledged expert on Mainland matters, naturally I would know—"

"Acknowledged expert on Mainland matters, my foot," Comfort said. "Why hast thou never talked of horned men all these long years?"

"I had no wish to cause distress," Freeman said.

"Pah," Comfort said. Medford couldn't help agreeing with her.

"He's telling a tanner," the Goatman said softly. "Heh. These flatfoots will believe a-a-anything."

"What exactly
is
a tanner, anyways?" Boyce murmured.

Medford shook his head, trying to follow what was happening.

"Mistress Head," said Grover, "is it wise to send Master Runyuin off with so little discussion? After meeting almost in secret, with so few present? I must say, the fate of Master Learned's daughter doth haunt me. We never heard what she did wrong."

"I have told thee before, Councilor, my daughter was my responsibility, to dispose of as I wished," Deemer said. "Dost thou argue with that?"

"She was young, I admit," Grover said. "But she was past Transition, and was therefore subject to the Council more than to her father."

"I appreciate your concerns, Councilor Physick," Verity said. "And yet I think Master Learned is correct as to Master Runyuin's fate. We are in peril as long as the creature remains here, and Master Runyuin certainly harbors him and aids him. Master Runyuin's carvings show us that he is ill-suited for our society, so I see no injustice."

"I move," Freeman said, "that Master Runyuin be gone with the creature."

"Too soon," Twig muttered.

"I second Councilor Trade's motion," Deemer said.

"All in favor?" Verity said.

Everyone except Grover raised a hand.

"Done," Deemer said. "Done."

"We didn't get a chance to say anything!" Prudy wailed. "We have things to say that might change your minds."

But did they? What, after all, had they learned last night? That the Learneds kept secrets, that others before Medford had made Unnameable Objects and been banished. Those things told them why Essence had been sent away, probably, but would they save Medford from the same fate?

Medford didn't think so.

He wondered if they'd let him take his carvings. They might insist on burning them. He thought about grabbing his favorites and ... and what? Hide them like Cordelia Weaver had? He didn't have time. He had only two hours left of his life on Island.

He imagined himself on a Mainland beach with the Goatman, watching Violet Waterman steam away home. How would he survive? Would he have to live with the goatfolk? How would his nose survive?

The Goatman's staff caught his eye. Goatfolk carved, didn't they? Those goat heads were pretty good—not as good as Boyce's Alma figure, perhaps, but he could learn something from the Goatman's uncle.

Unnameable thoughts.

Well, why not? His life was going to be one long Unnameable thought now.

A door banged downstairs. The building began to creak and slam and thump.

Voices murmured, more voices than Medford had ever heard in one place before. It sounded like a storm on Gravel Beach.

Chandler Fisher was the first through the auditorium door. "Well, well, well!" he thundered. "What have we here? A secret meeting of Council, Carvers, and Carpenters? Might a Fisher sit in?"

"And a Waterman or two," Cooper said. "A Pickler, a Cook, and three Bakers. A Tanner. Two Sawyers."

In they trooped: Mylon Smith. Irma Cobbler. Foresters, Candlewrights, Millers, and Farmers. Enoch Shepherd, his two sons, and his daughter, who'd come to Town for branding irons and news at Smith's Forge. Cartwrights. Weavers. Shearers. Spinners. They packed the auditorium and spilled out into the hallway.

More could have fit inside but nobody wanted to get too close to the Goatman. The Shepherds and Shearers, who were nearest, left a circle of clear floor around the Goatman's chair, pretending to talk to one another while keeping an eye out to make sure he didn't do something Unnameable or smelly while they were standing there.

Nobody wanted to get close to Medford's carvings either, whether for fear of contagion or for fear of knocking them over, Medford couldn't tell.

"Only one row of chairs?" Chandler boomed. "Why, Councilors, were we not expected? You folks by the door, start handing chairs in from that stack in the hall. Move them desks out of here, too. The rest of you cram up to the walls so we can make some nice neat rows here."

Verity put her hand in the air like a Learned. "Canst thou not stand, Master Fisher?" she shouted over the tumult. "The Council's business is nearly concluded."

"I stand up all day at my ovens," Clayton Baker yelled back. "I can't stand up here, too, and expect to get any thinking done."

"Yep," Chandler said, winking at Twig. "I believe we can take the time to set this place up proper." With a start, Medford remembered that Twig had wanted the meeting to last until ten o'clock. Why was that?

Verity knew defeat when she saw it. "The Council will be in recess until the chairs be set up," she said. She, Deemer, and Freeman forced their way out through the crowd and down the stairs. Grover kept his seat and chatted amiably with Comfort.

Medford relieved the Shepherds and Shearers by taking the Goatman over to an open window to air him out a bit. He could use a little fresh air himself, truth to tell. His brain felt like it was rattling around loose in his head. He looked at the clock over the map of
Island and Surrounding Waters.
Twenty-five minutes past nine o'clock. An hour and a half left on Island. He wished he could see his cabin one more time.

Arvid sat down next to Prudy, smiling at her. Med-ford found he didn't care that much, his mind already on the boat to Mainland. She'd need a friend when he was gone.

Twig chatted his way through the crowd, slapping shoulders, bending in to exchange a word, ducking the chairs being handed in from the hall. He caught Medford's eye and waved. Then he disappeared out the door ... going where?

Against his better judgment, Medford's heart lifted. Maybe Twig had something up his sleeve that would help.

Hope dies hard.

I think often of poor Cordelia, my dearest friend since childhood. I sit on the beach and try to see Mainland. Is she well? Is she happy? Is she even alive?

—Journal of Amalia Carter, 1836

W
HAM!

Everyone jumped.

"Wa-a-asn't me," the Goatman said.

Over in the front row of chairs, Arvid was on his feet, his chair fallen over. "Wilt thou let it be, girl?" he yelled, and stalked out of the auditorium.

In case Prudy looked at him, Medford turned to the window and stared out.

"Why are you smi-i-iling?" the Goatman asked him.

To Medford's surprise, Prudy came right over. "Arvid can be a little short-tempered," she said. "But he's not as bad as we thought."

Medford didn't know what to say to that. With unusual wisdom, he kept quiet.

"Anyways," Prudy said, "I think there be hope."

"I know," Medford said. "Your pa—"

"I don't know about Pa. I was thinking of Clayton Baker."

Medford thought about Clayton Baker, too. "You mean the muffins?"

"Arvid says if you promise to stop fancy carving they'll have to let you stay. They'll just put you out on the Barrens for a while."

Medford ran out of wisdom. "Arvid says that, does he?"

"Thou never givest Arvid a chance," Prudy said.

"A chance to what, kick me into the bog?"

"He's been very pleasant to me since Transition."

"Oh, aye?"

"Pleasanter than thee." How
did
she get her back so straight? "Of course we know now that thou wast lost to us all because of those ... those Unnameable..."

"Why don't you go talk to Arvid some more, Prudy. He being more like yourself and all."

"Just what is that supposed to mean?"

"Why don't you ask Arvid? If he ever comes back, that is."

"I thank thee. I believe I will." She stalked off, braids hanging straight.

He watched her go, feeling miserable. That might have been the last conversation he would ever have with Prudy.

Or could he make a deal with the Council, like Clayton Baker? Did he want to?

He imagined himself swearing not to do any more fancy carving. Going home without the Prudy head, the squirrel bowl, and the rest, which the Council would burn.

Filling his root cellar, finishing Twig's bowls. Walking out to smell the sea.

And instead of that, what? Off for a bone-chilling boat ride, never to return.

Life didn't have to be difficult and frightening. He could do this. He straightened his shoulders, drew in a lungful of air, let it out.

"Aye," he said, more to himself than anyone. "I'll promise to stop."

"Bweh-eh-eh." Medford hadn't realized a bleat could sound so disapproving.

The chairs were set up in neat rows, the Councilors back in their places. The clock read fifteen minutes before ten o'clock. He had an hour and a quarter left on Island.

What if he could stay?

He'd stop at Merchant's and Cook's on the way home, get supplies for the cabin. And the next day...
Twig's bowls first,
he thought, walking back to his chair.

But when he neared the table full of carvings, his imagination hit a snag.

It felt like his brain opened up—he could see where he'd gone wrong on the Prudy head. He'd been so busy perfecting each individual feature that he'd missed what Prudy was like as a person. "
Ma-a-aybe you should stop practicing and just do it,
" the Goatman had said.

Huh.

Even one cocked eyebrow would help. Never mind whether it was perfect. Then the forehead would wrinkle, maybe one end of her mouth would lift—

Medford shuddered. It was a sickness.

Boyce sat down, face as blank as the Prudy carving. Had Boyce ever looked cheerful? Medford couldn't remember.

The Goatman was staring out the open window, one finger tracing a pattern in the air. Outside, dry leaves swirled on a light breeze, making an'S curve, then an eight, then a complicated swooping loop, following the Goatman's fingertip.

Uh-oh.

Whup!

A slap of wind rattled the window. The Goatman's purple robe billowed. But then it was over, as if nothing had happened. Islanders taking their seats near the windows looked up, thinking they'd heard something, then went on talking.

The Goatman clopped over to his seat, shaking his head. "I ca-a-an't hold on to it," he told Boyce as he sat down.

"Glad to hear it," Boyce said.

"The Council will reconvene," Verity announced, rapping on the table.

Twig wasn't back yet. Medford didn't know what to do. Should he stand up now, promise not to carve any more Unnameable Objects?

But Chandler Fisher was up first. "Before the Council moves on, Mistress Head, we want to know what we missed before we got here."

Verity's mouth looked so much like a fissure in granite that Medford thought she'd refuse to tell Chandler anything. But she said, "This Council hath voted to banish Master Runyuin for his Unnameable carving and for exposing Island to danger. The horned man will leave with Medford."

"Bweh-eh-eh!"

Chandler had his mouth open to say more, but the Goatman's comment had thrown him. It was now or never.

Medford stood up. "
Ungh,
" he managed. That wasn't what he'd meant to say.

Mistress Head eyed him with curiosity. "Master Runyuin?"

"
Armf,
" Medford said. Through a haze of terror, he saw ten raised eyebrows, two per Councilor.

"What're you doing, boy?" Boyce whispered, tugging his sleeve. "Sit down."

He had to say two words: "I'll stop." Medford thought about daybreak behind his cabin. Tea on a crisp morning. Prudy.

Boyce tugged again. Medford looked down at his foster father's tired, unhappy face.
A lifetime of spoons.

He looked at the Prudy head. The squirrel bowl. The Bog Island view.

They were his. They were him.

"I wont stop carving them," he heard himself say. "I don't think they're Unnameable at all."

"We thank thee for making that plain, Master Runyuin," Verity said.

Medford sat down because his legs wouldn't hold him up anymore. What had just happened? Why was his heart so much lighter?

"Was that supposed to help, boy?" Boyce whispered.

"Master Runyuin may go or stay as it please thee, Mistress Head," Chandler said. "What I want to know is, what about them journals we ain't supposed to see? Medford read to us from one this morning, told us all about the original Naming and there being no Capability C. Craft and—"

"No Capability C. Craft?" Freeman said. "What in the Names do you mean? He wrote the Book, says so right on it."

"'Tisn't anyone's real name," Prudy said. "'Twas an unscrupulous printer and information from Wolley and Murrel and Old Wives."