The Unnameables (13 page)

On the other side of the closed door, the Goatman was rattling pans, stoking the stove. The Goatman's noises harmonized with his into something like a pulling song, and Medford hummed as he sanded. It was like the early days when Boyce was teaching Medford to carve and they let the sound of their chisels talk for them, back and forth in Boyce's sunny workshop.

While the nutcakes were baking the Goatman came in to watch what Medford was doing. He didn't stay long. "Boring a-a-as leafwork," he said.

"What's leafwork?"

"I'll show you la-a-ater." The Goatman left, shutting the door behind him.

Medford had finished sanding and was sweeping up sawdust when the Goatman opened the door again. "Food," the Goatman said, cleaning his hands with his sash.

He'd piled a dozen small cakes on a plate in the center of the table with a wooden bowl of beets next to it. He'd set out two plates, two cups of Millicent Brewer's root beer, two forks, and two folded napkins.

The Goatman looked as though he had taken a cup of nut flour and dumped it down the front of his robe. Another cups worth, at least, was scattered over the kitchen floor by the sink. He rubbed the flour he'd spilled on himself into the fibers of his purple robe. The robe seemed to suck it all in, leaving only a hazy residue behind. Medford wondered what else that robe had absorbed and for how many years.

When he sat down at the table, though, he thought nutcakes might be worth any amount of spilled flour. They were round like fish cakes, about three inches across and an inch high, light brown and crusty. The Goatman had ground some of the nuts into flour but had simply chopped the rest, so the cakes crunched when you bit into them. They were sweet as nuts, of course, but there was an additional taste that Medford couldn't describe, a wild, fresh taste like the air at Hunter's Moon tinged with woodsmoke.

The Goatman, perched uncomfortably on the edge of his chair, watched Medford take his first bite. Then he grinned and reached for a cake himself. "Didn't think you'd li-i-ike them, did you?"

"Mmmph," Medford said.

"Be-e-etter eat some of these red things, too. And don't eat too many cakes. They fill you up fa-a-aster than you expect."

Medford dutifully ate beets, then returned to the nutcakes. He ate three and reached for a fourth. The Goatman moved the plate away.

"Be-e-etter wait," he said.

He was right. Medford went to the stream for water, and by the time the teakettle was on the stove he was feeling that he might never eat again. "These things feed us all winter," the Goatman said. "They are ma-a-ade to last."

The Goatman was chewing hard. Too late, Medford noticed that half of the Goatman's napkin was gone and the rest was in tatters. This had to stop.

Medford held up his own napkin. "Goatman. I'm sorry, but I must tell you something about these things."

"Nothing to be so-o-orry about. They're ve-e-ery good."

"Nay, that's not it. They aren't..."

"Yes, they are. I li-i-ike them very much."

"Goatman, they are not food. They are napkins. If you get food on your face, you use them to wipe it off" Med-ford wiped the corners of his mouth to demonstrate.

"And the-e-en you eat them."

"No. Then you wash them—what I did to the dishes, remember?—and put them away and use them the next time you eat."

The Goatman stared at Medford, then down at the ragged half napkin in his hands. He sniffed at it, then looked back at Medford.

"Wha-a-at a waste," he said. "Can I finish this one?"

The Four Humours—Blood, Phlegm, Black Bile, Yellow Bile—govern the Health of the Body as well as the Temperament.... In case of an Anger caused by Overabundance of Yellow Bile, cold Food hath proved Efficacious.

—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)

A
FTER SUPPER
Medford lighted the oil lamps. For warmth, he put more flypaper on the window the Goatman had broken the day before. He, the Goatman, and the dog settled in front of the stove. All three were silent, basking in warmth and comfort.

It was then, however, that the horrors of the day began to close in on Medford. Had he really shown Prudy and Earnest his carvings? Had Prudy really stalked off to Town, leaving the word "Unnameable" to hover over him like a carrion bird?

Why, oh why, had he never burned all those carvings?

When Medford tried to think about what was going to happen next—a confrontation with Deemer Learned and the Council, the stunned expression on Boyce's face—he wanted to run out into the dark and hide in the woods.

What if they make me leave? And they will,
he thought.

"You can come wi-i-ith us when we go," the Goatman said.

Medford hadn't realized he'd spoken out loud. He looked down at the Goatman, lying there on the rug with the dog curled up next to him. He looked at the horns, the hooves, the yellow fingernails. He smelled the various smells that chased one another through the heat around the stove.

He felt he'd been asleep all his life, safe in Boyce's house and in Prudy's friendship, numb to the dangers lurking just outside the door. Suddenly he was awake and seeing the world as it was. A place where friends betray you, where you go out the door and it locks behind you.

He would stay on this island if he could but he probably couldn't. He straightened his back, Prudy-like.

There was a line in the Book that had always stuck with him, and not for the reasons Capability C. Craft had intended. The lesson was about fishing, a warning against taking more than you need.
If ye need it not, toss it free to seek thy net another day.

Free.
That was the word that caught him. He hardly knew what it meant. But it might almost be what he was feeling at that moment, as though he was about to
be tossed out to leap through the waves at will. Leaving everyone else behind.

It was a windswept feeling, but something in it was dark and cold, akin to anger but more ... well, Useful. There was strength in it.

Perhaps Mainland is where I really belong,
whispered a tiny voice in his brain.
Aye,
a larger voice replied,
but do you know what's over there? A beach and a road away from it, that's what you know. What makes you think they'll like you any better over there?

What was it the Book said?
Run not from thy woes, for they will follow thee.

"My thanks," Medford said to the Goatman. "I may go with thee when the time comes. But not right away."

Before he went to bed, he gave the Goatman a couple of blankets to cover himself and the dog. He could always burn the blankets later.

The next morning broke without a rosy hue. The sky simply lightened behind the trees, pewter deepening to blue. The air was chilly, a foretaste of winter.

Hunched up in blankets at the end of his bed, leaning on the windowsill, Medford watched the dog wander around the garden, sniffing things. The kitchen door opened and the Goatman dumped an armload of wood into the box beside the stove.

Medford hauled on his breeches and scuttled out to make sure it was firewood going into the stove and not carving stock. He rescued three poles intended for walking
sticks and showed the Goatman how to start a fire for the kettle. The Goatman obligingly grabbed a bucket and went out to the stream for water.

It was cold in the kitchen. When winter came, Med-ford would learn to use the stove dampers to keep the fire going overnight. He scuttled back into his bedroom to put on his shirt and stockings. He'd wash his face when the kitchen warmed up a bit.

It was time to pick the last of the beans for drying. In a couple of weeks Medford would bring in the onions and pumpkins (
Savory Roots and Pie Gourds,
his brain supplied primly) for the root cellar under his workshop. Boyce let the carrots (
Orange Stew Roots
) sweeten in the cold ground before harvest and Medford thought he'd do the same.

He'd never been in charge of a root cellar before. As he tied up his shoes, he thought about where he would put everything. He had a barrel of Starch Root already and one waiting for Red Keeping Fruit. He had a box of moss to keep the carrots from softening, shelves for the pumpkins. He'd braid the onions and hang them.

Intent on his harvest plans, he bustled around the kitchen spooning loose tea into Clarity's teapot, putting the kettle on the stove, and getting mugs down from the cupboard. But then the cluster of decorated walking sticks caught his eye, leaning against the wall by his workshop door. Every shelf, every windowsill, had its Unnameable Object on display.

The horrors returned. He might not be here to fill up his root cellar—he'd have gone off to a strange land where people were called Abercrombie. Medford sat down in the chair by the workshop door and hunched over, hugging himself, tea forgotten.

The Goatman poked his head in the door. "Wa-a-ant to see leafwork?"

Well, it was better than sitting there fretting.

At the bottom of the porch steps, the Goatman stuck the very tip of a finger into his mouth to wet it—"I'll be ca-a-areful," he said, seeing the look on Medford's face—and just barely beckoned to a red leaf lying on the ground. Medford tightened his grip on the porch railing. A thin breeze came up—he could feel it on his face. It was fresh from the sea, sweetened by the trees, and his heart lifted as if Book Learning had just ended. But his hair prickled at the same time. There was danger in a breeze—controlled for that moment but not forever.

The leaf rose into the air and twirled in a loop, following the Goatman's finger. "See?" the Goatman said. "Thi-i-is is how it's—"

Whup!
Medford was flat on his back, birds screaming in the woods. He hardly knew what had hit him, the wind had come and gone so fast.

"I ha-a-ate my uncle," the Goatman remarked, splayed on the grass.

"Why was that your uncle's fault?" Medford felt the back of his head for lumps.

"Leafwork is hi-i-is idea. He says it trains the mi-i-ind."

"Doesn't it?"

"Bweh-eh-eh," the Goatman said, getting up. "Ti-i-ime for cold nutcakes."

The thought of eating anything made Medford's stomach curl up. But he followed the Goatman inside, made the tea, and sat down, cupping his mug in his hands. Part of him wanted to think about what he'd just seen but most of him was too tired.

"So," the Goatman said from the hearth rug, feeding the dog half a nutcake, "what happens toda-a-ay?"

Medford shrugged. He had to put a few coats of oil on Twig's bowl. He had to pick beans. He had to plan his life. None of it seemed important. The best thing would be to sit here and drink tea all day. All night. All week.

"Something's mi-i-issing."

Startled, Medford saw that the Goatman was narrowing his eyes at the Prudy head. He looked at it, too. Nose, chin, tucked-up braids—everything seemed to be there.

"When you stand back i-i-it doesn't really look like her."

Nose, chin, tucked-up braids. "'Tis her," Medford said. "The nose is perfect. So is the chin." Who was the Goatman to criticize, anyway?

"It ha-a-as all her parts but it is not ... alive." The Goatman contemplated the Prudy head, chewing. "You should see my uncle sha-a-ape a cloud. It is there for just a blink but it lives."

"I don't see you shaping any clouds," Medford said, annoyance breaking through numbness. "You're finding fault with my carving because your leaf blew away."

"Leafwork i-i-is stupid."

"Even if it works?"

"It never works."

"Nothing does at first. You have to practice and then keep at it. Prudy's nose is perfect because I—" What was he saying? He was making the Unnameable sound like something Useful.

"Ma-a-aybe you should stop practicing and just do it."

This was so unfair it took Medford's breath away.

"Bweh-eh-eh. 'I ca-a-an't do it, i-i-it's not allowed,'" the Goatman continued, chanting in a high, whiny voice. Was that supposed to be Medford? "'I don't have a good na-a-ame. I don't fit i-i-in.'" The Goatman leaned forward. "Stop whi-i-impering, Fancy Carver Boy. Just do it."

Fancy Carver Boy. Stop
whimpering?

"Tuh," Medford said, in an attempt at a scornful laugh. "Whimpering, am I?" Even his hair felt hot. "Why would that be, I wonder? Everyone finding out that I've been making Unnameable Objects since I was ten, could that be it? Or a goatman stinking up my cabin and eating up my towels and blowing me over in the wind, telling Prudy everything she's not supposed to know so she'll run back and tell Deemer Learned."

The Goatman was frozen on the rug, staring at Med-ford, eyes round.

Medford heard his own voice turn all windy and
grassy. "Sha-a-aping the clouds! Ca-a-alling the wonderful wi-i-ind! As if anyone could shape the clouds, especially him with his bweh-eh-eh and his arms waving around and his she-cousin who's so much better than he is. And lucky, lucky me, maybe when I'm thrown off Island because of him I could spend the rest of my life with a whole herd of smelly, lying goatmen—"

Medford ran out of breath.

In one fluid motion, impressive for a man with hooves, the Goatman hauled himself up, spun around, and hurled his mug at the window he'd broken the day before. The mug bounced off the flypaper and hit the floor, where the handle broke off.

The fact that no glass had broken seemed to infuriate the Goatman. "Bweh-eh-eh-eh," he cried to the rafters, trembling, his hands in the air. "Bweh-eh-eh-eh!" He punched out to the east, jabbed to the west, made rock-throwing motions to north and south. Various members of the wind family, sleeping among the Mainland hills and grasslands and far out to sea, jolted awake.

Whup-whup-whup. Whup! Whup!
Medford slid off his chair. He huddled on the floor under the table, hands over his head. The dog rushed over and flopped down beside him. She snuggled her damp body against his side.

He'd closed all the windows the night before. There were no trees near the cabin. It would be fine.