The Unnameables (28 page)

On a bluff over the rocks stood a lone Pitch Tree that, unlike most of its kind, had large branches perfectly spaced for climbing. Ever since anyone could remember, Island children had dared one another to climb to its top, where the trunk would bend under their weight some thirty feet above the ground and at least forty feet above the rocks.

Hazel Forester was up there now, an arm's reach from the top. Hazel had grown more than she realized and the trunk was bending more than usual. Verity's sharp eyes had seen what Hazel did not: After years of abuse, the tree was about to give up.

There was a loud crack. "Ma!" Hazel yelled as the treetop began to topple.

"Hazel!" screamed her mother, Sarah Candlewright, standing on the wharf.

"A-a-a-hhh!" yelled everyone else.

"Bweh-eh-eh! No-o-o!" The Goatman flung up his hands in horror.

Whup!

Before anyone knew what was happening, a blast of east wind flung itself at the falling treetop. The wind caught the branches and, with Hazel aboard, the treetop took flight. It sailed out over the rocks, over the shallows, over the floats. Girl parted company with tree and plummeted into deep water, three feet away from a dinghy where Rufus Fisher was gutting harbor fish. Hazel emerged on the surface, flailing.

Rufus adjusted quickly to the novelty of young girls falling out of the sky. He grabbed Hazel by the scruff of the neck and hauled her into the dinghy, where she lay gasping amid fish guts. The treetop plunged into the water thirty feet away and bobbed to the surface. Rufus gaped at it, then at Hazel. He looked to the crowd on the wharf for guidance. White-faced, everyone on the wharf gaped back at him.

"Well, I'll be," Ward said.

"That," Verity said, "was a Useful gust,"

"Mistress Head," Grover Physick said, "I believe the Council should reconsider its vote. This creature may have redeeming qualities."

The Goatman had frozen in place, but now he lowered his hands.

"Did you do that on purpose?" Medford whispered.

"Don't know," the Goatman said.

"Maybe we can say you did."

The Goatman raised his eyebrows. "Ma-a-aybe it's not true."

"Not yet."

Rufus hoisted Hazel onto the float, soaking wet and covered in fish slime. Her mother hugged her, weeping. Then, hands on her daughter's shoulders, Sarah propelled Hazel toward the Goatman.

Hazel hesitated, gazing up into the Goatman's blue eyes. The Goatman reached out a hand and showed his stubby teeth. Hazel threw her arms around him.

The Goatman patted Hazel's head. His nose wrinkled.

"She sti-i-inks," the Goatman said.

To cleanse the air of Offensive Smells, pick Lavender flowers when the Dew has just dried. They can be Strewn, enclosed in a Pomander, or dried and crushed.

—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)

E
SSENCE STAYED
with Clarity and Twig for almost a week. When she finally left for Mainland, she took Earnest with her.

"More things to take apart," Earnest explained, not meeting anyone's eye. "And I can come back if I want."

Clarity wept as Earnest chugged away on the Mainland harbormaster's boat. "He'll be back," Twig assured her. But he was as solemn as Medford had ever seen him.

Two days after Earnest left, Twig attended a Council meeting to propose that all Islanders—adults and young ones alike—be given history classes in the Archives. He refused to leave until he got his way. He became a regular at Council meetings, and made himself such a nuisance that Grover started, hiding behind the nearest Fleabane Shrub when he saw Twig coming.

Since no one really believed Earnest would come back, his departure presented Prudy and the Council with a puzzle. Now Twig was the one without an apprentice.

Fortunately, Hazel Forester chose that moment to sneak up to the Archives on a non-Book-Learning day. She was discovered poring over a collection of Forester journals.

"The girl shows an interest, Master Learned," Comfort Naming said at the next Council meeting. "See how she fares, and in time perhaps thou might release Prudy back to her father."

Deemer eyed Hazel with distaste. Hazel straightened her back and tried not to giggle.

"I'd still come up to the Archives to make sure all's well," Prudy told Deemer. "Even if I be a Carpenter." Med-ford wasn't sure if that was reassurance or a threat. He could see that Deemer wasn't sure, either.

Prudy agreed to stay a Learned long enough to put the Archives back to rights—no one trusted Deemer to do it. As far as Prudy could discover, more than a dozen journals had gone into the Councilor's sitting room stove, including two by Cordelia Weaver, one by Jeremiah Comstock/ Weaver, and three by Jeremiah's father, Jacob Comstock/ Potter.

Other than ordering that the lock stay off the Archives door, the Council did nothing to punish Deemer for his infractions. '"Twill be punishment enough that we know all his secrets now," Prudy told anyone who would listen.

She also organized the testimony on Medford's behalf when Runyuin became an official name, written in the front of the Book just like Carpenter and Tanner.

"That girl's for the Council someday, Raggedy," Grover whispered to Medford.

"Raggedy" had become a friendly nickname, although not one Medford would have chosen for himself. It took Arvid several weeks to realize that other people were using it affectionately. He and his father immediately stopped using it. That was something.

To Arvid's further displeasure, exchanging runyuins was becoming a popular way of marking anniversaries and special occasions. While no one would have called them exactly Useful, their owners admitted they weren't unpleasant to have around. Islanders began stopping Med-ford to ask what he was working on, and managed not to look horrified when he told them.

"Ma's going to sell some of her runyuins at Merchant's," Prudy told Medford as they walked to Bog Island one day in Hunter's Moon. "Fine with me. Get them out of the house."

Although she was doing her best to adapt, Prudy's attitude toward runyuins was inconsistent. She could pore over Medford's carvings by the hour and even asked one or two questions about technique. But she still hadn't forgiven Clarity or Medford for all the years of secrecy, and made a point of ignoring the little clay figures that dotted every flat surface at home.

Medford had traded the Prudy head for one of Clarity's pottery runyuins, a charming rendition of a spring lamb kicking up its heels.

"Did you feel anything when you got the idea for this?" Medford had asked Clarity. "A ... hum? Or a buzz? Fresh air in your brain?" Clarity had looked at him as if he had his breeches on his head.

"Surely you must feel
something
when you make these," he added in desperation.

She thought for a minute. "I'm happy. Is that what you mean?"

Prudy and Medford still hadn't been back to Bog Island. But so many people wanted to see Cordelia Weaver's cloth man that Boyce finally withdrew his opposition.

Medford wasn't sure that was a good idea. He still turned red at the thought of all those courting rumors—although that did not prevent him from wanting to spend every possible waking minute with Prudy everywhere else.

She was his best friend, he told himself as they scuffed through the bronze-colored leaves that covered the path. You didn't court your best friend, even if her cheeks were shell pink and her hair smelled like grass.

Not yet, anyway.

They'd asked the Goatman to join them, but he was on the blueberry barrens practicing wind control. He had been up there every day since the Council withdrew his banishment. Islanders were learning to grab something solid and hold on when they heard a
whup
coming in from the north.

So far, the winds hadn't been bad. "I fa-a-are well," the Goatman reported proudly to Medford.

Bog Island looked almost the same as it had a year ago, and Cordelia's cloth man was right where Medford had buried it. "We'll take it to Prosper Weaver," Prudy said. "He's probably related."

As they neared Prospers shop, however, Deemer Learned was pacing down the sidewalk in Council robe and dented tricorn, on his way to Town Hall. "Why art thou not in the Archives, Mistress Learned?" he asked when he was in earshot.

"I had other business," Prudy said. Deemer's face tightened at the lack of respect in her voice. His manner did not improve when Prudy unfurled Cordelia's woven object.

"This is what Medford and I found buried on Bog Island last year," she explained, "and now we take it to Master Weaver, since its maker was a relative."

"Such an object belongs in the Archives," Deemer said. " Tis part of our heritage and must be kept safe."

"We'll see what Prosper Weaver thinks," Medford said. "Perhaps he will agree. But perhaps not."

Deemer's stare would have frozen Medford's blood a month ago. But Medford stared right back. Minutes ticked by, then a century or two.

Whup-whup-whup!
Medford and Prudy flung themselves to the ground as a blast of wind rocketed in from the north. Their hair lifted from the backs of their heads. Dry dirt from the street swirled around them.

But in the next instant all was quiet again.

"That wasn't bad," Prudy said, getting up and dusting herself off. "Worse than yesterday, though."

"Abomination," Deemer Learned muttered, on his knees clinging to Irma Cobbler's fence post. "Ruination of us all."

Medford put out a hand. "Let me help you up, Master Learned."

Deemer stared at Medford's hand for a long minute, then turned away and heaved himself up without it. "Thou and thy Unnameable Objects," he said, "will hasten the decay of all we hold dear."

A door slapped shut across the street. Freeman Trade and his nephew, Matthew Merchant, stood on the porch at Merchant's Store, unfurling a banner that read:
RUNYUINS BY CLARITY POTTER, STARTING NEXT WEEK.

Deemer snorted and stalked off toward Town Hall.

Watching him walk away, a lone black-clad figure looking neither right nor left, his fellow Islanders passing him by with no cheery call or wave, Medford was surprised to feel a twinge of sympathy.

Just what Prudy said,
he thought. Master Learned had not escaped punishment.

When he got home, the Goatman was insulating the porch with evergreens so he and the dog could sleep under there all winter. The dog was hunkered down gnawing on something. Medford didn't look close to see what it was.

"I lost the wi-i-ind," the Goatman said when Med-ford peered in to see what he was doing. "I was be-e-etter yesterday."

"You'll get it," Medford said. "Is that whoosh you feel slowing down any?"

"Yes. No. I don't know. I don't wa-a-ant to talk about it."

"I wish I knew what to call that feeling I get when I'm carving, that hum or buzz or fweeee."

"You ca-a-an't call it anything," the Goatman said. "It's Unnameable."

He probably was right.

IT TOOK A VILLAGE
to bring Medford and friends to print. For the most part, that village was Brooklin, Maine, but sometimes its borders stretched to New York and beyond.

Kathy Dawson, my editor, is the person above all others whose judgment and guidance gave Medford a book worth living in. I wouldn't have met Kathy without the talent and energy of my agent, Kate Schafer, and I wouldn't have met Kate without the intervention of Genie Chips Henderson and her husband, Bill Henderson. I wouldn't have met Bill if Doris Grumbach hadn't asked me to her birthday party ... but I could keep this going forever, so I'll stop now.

Shelly Perron, best friend for life, was Medford's first editor. Her son, Graham P. Nelson, broke it to me that the original first chapter dragged. The Foul-Weather Writers Group (Tania Allen, Deborah Brewster, Maggie Davis, Becky McCall, Gail Page, Kim Ridley, and Zoe Sullivan) was generous with insight and moral support. Other readers, listeners, and advisers included Rob Shillady (six drafts!), Cynthia Voigt, Sosha Sullivan, Oliver Sullivan, David Sullivan, Matthew Allen, Oliver Gellerson, Alorah Gellerson, Jill Knowles, Paul Sullivan, Henry Sullivan, Mary Catherine Dunn, Sherry Streeter, Eric Jacobssen, Anita Jacobssen, Sarah Pavia, Alice Wilkinson, Stephen Fay, Dorothy Booraem, Abigail Booraem, Holly Meade, and Lisa Heldke. Cynthia Thayer and the Peninsula Writers Group (Bettina Dudley, David Fickett, Annaliese Jakimedes, Paul Markosian, and Thelma White) delivered a well-timed kick in the breeches.

Island's language and culture were informed by Samuel Pepys, William Wycherley, the King James Bible, Lydia Maria Child (
The American Frugal Housewife,
1832; reprinted by Dover Publications, Inc., 1999), Liza Picard (
Restoration London,
Avon Books, Inc., 1997), and the websites of Plimoth Plantation, Old Sturbridge Village, and Colonial Williamsburg. I borrowed a couple of Book phrases from
Rules of Civility & Decent Behaviour in Company and Conversation,
as transcribed by the teenage George Washington in 1744. Myriad facts, minor and major, came my way via Brooklin's Friend Memorial Public Library, and librarians Gretchen Volenik and Stephanie Atwater.

Medford and the Goatman originally appeared in paintings by my partner, Rob Shillady, who cheerfully let me steal them.