The Unnameables (2 page)

"I heard what you and Run-you-out get up to on that secret island of yours, Prudy." Arvid again. "Hazel says her ma'd never let her sneak off like that with a raggedy, Nameless—"

Prudy whirled and kicked water in Arvid's long, freckled face. It was a good, soaking splash, one in a thousand, and when he turned away to wipe the salt out of his eyes she kicked him in the seat of his linsey-woolsey knee breeches.

Several things happened then.

Arvid fell nose-down just after a wave went out and didn't quite get up in time to miss the next wave coming in. It slapped him in the face and he went down again. Now it was Prudy laughing.

Hazel Forester balled up her fists and headed for Prudy. Medford balled up his fists and stepped in front of Prudy. Prudy stepped out from behind him, stuck her new shell in her pocket, and balled up a fist or two herself.

Fordy helped his brother up, hand already clenched.

It had never come to blows before but this might be the time. Medford hoped he'd know what to do.

"Prudence!"

As if they were connected by fishing line, everybody's hands dropped to their sides.

Prudy's father, Twig, grabbed her arm and pulled her to shore. "Explain," Twig said.

"They called Medford Nameless and Plank Baby and said we're up to something bad on our island."

"Many say the same" said Arvid's father, hovering nearby. He had a nose for secrets, eyes for shame, and always a tale to tell, not necessarily true.

"I thank thee, Dexter," Twig said. "Go away, if it please thee."

"My son be blameless, Master Carpenter."

"Take Arvid with you, if you please. Your horses need tending." Sure enough, Dexter's team was meandering forward with its load of Cropfodder.

"Hauling Creatures they're called, to be by the Book," Dexter said, his face a model of virtue.

"Looks like they be hauling too soon, by the Book or no." Twig was among those who ignored the Beast and Domestic Creature Classification of 1853, which in addition to other innovations renamed horses as Hauling Creatures and cows as Greater Horned Milk Creatures. The Shepherds had always ignored it because they could hardly call themselves Shepherd if sheep were Fleece Creatures. Others just thought the new names were too hard to use.

At the moment, Medford thought, Twig Carpenter was simply trying to annoy Dexter Tanner. It worked, as always. Dexter turned his back on Twig and gestured angrily to Arvid, Fordy, and Hazel, who slogged out of the waves and down the beach to rejoin the seaweed gatherers.

"More trouble for young Master Runyuin," Dexter said in the tender, saddened tone with which he savored bad news. "Well, they do say, once a Runyuin never a Carver." He stalked off after Arvid and his cronies.

"Tanners breathe in poisons, Medford," Twig said. "Then they talk."

"I'm fine, Twig." Having Prudy's father around made Medford want to put on a brave face. Twig wasn't tall—Medford was tallser—but he was broad at the shoulders, sunbrowned and strong, so solid and with such a bounce in his step that he seemed bigger than he was.

"Arvid's going to be a Sawyer, like his ma," Prudy said. She was chewing on one of her blond braids, the way she always did when something made her nervous.

Twig pulled the braid out of her mouth, gave it a little tug. "And Sawyers have sharp edges. We get our lumber from Dulcie Sawyer, girl."

Prudy's back straightened, a sure sign of a fight. "He deserved kicking, Pa."

"Thou shalt tell him sorry," Twig said, using Book Talk so she'd know he meant it.

"But Pa—"

"Thou shalt do it now, Prudence." Twig clamped a hand on her shoulder as if to propel her toward Arvid.

Prudy shrugged her shoulder free. "Aye, Pa."

"Can't do it now," Medford said, trying not to sound relieved. "Arvid's off with his pa." Dexter's horses were struggling toward the South Shore Road, Arvid and Fordy wrestling a slimy mound of seaweed in the back of the wagon. They'd have to have a full-out bath in the kitchen when they got home.

"Thou shalt go to his house this evening," Twig said. Prudy took her new shell out of her pocket and studied it as if she hadn't heard him. Twig patted her shoulder and went back to Emery Farmer's hay cart, which he was helping to load in exchange for transporting his own garden mulch. Prudy plopped down in the dry sand.

"I do name thee Pinky," she said, holding the shell up to the sun and using Book Talk for ceremony. "Pink as the sunrise, pink as Balmweed."

Pink as Prudy. "'Tis a Useless name," Medford said. He sat down next to her. Her hair smelled of sun and cut grass.

"'Tis a Useless Object," she said. "One more to smash at Transition." She pressed her lips together the way she did when she was determined not to cry, and started building a little driftwood house for Pinky. Medford watched, marveling at how she could fit odd bits of wood together so they'd stand up straight.

So Prudy was worried about Transition, too. It was scary, that ceremony at the start of adulthood, when all the Useless things of childhood got smashed underfoot. Medford imagined Prudy's new shell already in pieces, turning to dust under her heel.

Medford didn't have any Useless Objects to destroy at Transition. Well, he did have some, actually, but he couldn't show them to anyone. Their destruction would have to be secret, like their making.

He would burn them and make no more. He promised himself that.

His biggest fear was that the Council would refuse to change his name. He'd been apprenticing with Boyce for five years but his foster father kept his ideas to himself—it was hard to tell whether he thought Medford deserved to be called Carver.

Prudy went by her father's name, as most young ones did. And she'd decided to take the Carpenter name for good, continue apprenticing with Twig. She expected no arguments. Neither did anyone else in this class of Book Learners. Medford was the only one whose future was in doubt.

A roar among the seaweed gatherers broke into Med-ford's thoughts.

"Young Master Earnest Carpenter," bellowed the mighty Chandler Fisher, "what ails this motor?" Twig's children both were having a hectic day.

Master Fisher stood knee-deep in seaweed, yanking the start cord of his motorboat engine as the boat drifted toward the rocks. The motor coughed and gave up.

Prudy's older brother, Earnest, watched from the beach, pitchfork in hand, a deceptively witless grin gleaming in a face gone blotchy red. Essence Learned had dropped her pitchfork and was doubled over, screeching with laughter. Medford hadn't seen her laugh like this since she and Earnest went through Transition last spring. She was apprenticing with her dismal father, Deemer Learned, so Medford could understand her darker mood.

It was nice to see her laugh again.

Prudy snorted. '"Tis not funny," she said.

It wasn't as funny as Essence was making it, Medford had to admit. She clutched her middle as if the laughter hurt. She couldn't seem to stop.

"Thou wast fiddling with this contraption after I got here," Chandler hollered, impressive in Book Talk. "What didst thou dislodge, young Nutgatherer?"

"Nothing," Earnest said. "Probably nothing. Almost nothing." He dug his fork into the sand and headed for the boat. His white-blond hair blew free of its pigtail and danced around his face, making him look like a madman. "Well, maybe something."

Nobody knew what to do about Earnest. He spent the workday building things and his free time taking things apart.

"He'll grow out of it," Twig told those who complained. "Probably."

Rrruppp-rrroar!
The motor came to life and Earnest waded ashore. "I put that twisty thing back upside down," he yelled to Chandler, who shook his fist at him.

Essence Learned gave Earnest an approving punch, still trembling with laughter. "Just encouraging him," Prudy muttered.

The tide was coming in fast. The sun dipped low. The rocks disappeared under the water and the seaweed began to float. Islanders who had stripped down to their linen shirts (unbleached to save labor) now pulled on vests and sweaters (dyed dark brown to hide the dirt). Chandler churned off toward Town in the overloaded boat.

Earnest poked at the sand with his pitchfork, keeping a shy distance from Essence Learned but watching her out of the corner of his eye. She swung a last forkful of Cropfodder onto her handcart ... and went rigid.

Her father, his black Council robe flapping and outlandish in the breezy sunshine, was marching down the track to the beach.

Deemer Learned, Councilor for Ethics, acknowledged no one, responded to no cheery call or wave, just headed straight for Essence. His Council tricorn hat looked as if a bird had dropped it on his bald head by mistake.

Prudy brushed the sand off her knee breeches and strolled nearer. Medford followed, although he didn't see why they'd want to get closer to Councilor Deemer Learned.

Four days a week, year-round except during harvest, Island young ones suffered through Book Learning, with lessons ranging from cooking and farming to Island Ethics. They broke free of Councilor Learned only at Transition.

Now the Councilor towered over his only daughter, his robe billowing from his skinny frame. "I have read thy journal, girl," he said.

Essence looked as if she'd been bleached in the sun. "By what right, Pa?"

"I am thy father and thy master. Come."

"I'll stay here and see you later," Essence said, chin up.

"Come."

"Pa, I beg—"

"Come."

Essence stepped over her fallen pitchfork. Without a glance at anyone, she followed her father
off
the beach and up the sandy track to the road.

Earnest fumbled in his pocket for his tiny screwdriver and his great-grandfather's imported Mainland pocket watch. He liked to take it apart when he was worried.

"That," Earnest said, unscrewing things, "is why I keep no journal."

Merit Glazer, who hath taught our Children from the Book these Ten Years, wishes to change names since he no longer maketh Glass. He shall be Learned now.

—Journal of Ida Waterman, 1790

E
SSENCE WAS LATE
to Book Learning the next day and her father started the class without her. The auditorium on Town Hall's second floor was even chillier for her absence. The sunlight through the windows seemed weak and cold.

Medford worried that Councilor Learned was going to try to teach all fifty-three students by himself. His temper would be nasty and the younger students, usually taught by Essence as Deemer's apprentice, would be in tears. The New Learners were sitting unnaturally still and silent, hoping Deemer would forget they existed.

Deemer had to carry the Book the few steps from its safe to its lectern all by himself, staggering under the weight. The pupils froze to their hard wooden chairs, not making a sound, hoping he wouldn't drop it. It was anyone's guess what his temper would be like if that happened.

The Book was huge: a foot and a half wide, two feet long, a foot thick. It was the only reason there was Book Learning. The only reason there was anything.

Like all else on Island, the Book had a name:
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).

Perversely, no one ever used the Book's name. They just called it the Book. No one knew who Capability C. Craft had been. Medford thought of him as a talkative version of Boyce, his foster father—clever hands and steady patience with a touch of sturdy, confident Twig Carpenter thrown in.

Deemer eased the Book safely onto the lectern. Only then did Prudy dare to raise her hand. Nobody else bothered because they knew Prudy would do it for them.

"Where be Mistress Learned?" she asked.

"Mistress Learned's whereabouts be no concern of thine," Deemer snapped. "Chalkboards out."

"If she be ailing—"

"Chalkboards out!"

Essence walked through the door just then. Her eyes were red, her usually thin face as puffy as Baker's dough. Her light brown hair was tied back in a lopsided braid. She might actually be ailing, Medford thought.

The New Learners were too afraid of Deemer to cheer out loud when they saw her. They just exhaled as a group and relaxed. Essence gave them a wan smile and headed over to sit with them.

But Deemer slammed his ruler on the lectern, a gesture no one ever ignored. The ruler was a foot and a half long and sturdy, used for measuring things, pointing at things, and skimming the tops of pupils' heads.

"Over there, Mistress Learned," Deemer said. He pointed the ruler at an empty seat in the aisle farthest away from the New Learners, behind Prudy.

"Pa, I would—"

"Councilor Learned to thee. Take thy seat."

Essence obeyed. A New Learner let out a whimper. Deemer ignored the sound and from that moment on he ignored Essence, too. He made Prudy come up to read out the Book's shellfish fritter recipe. Scribbling on their chalkboards, the pupils tried to figure out how to increase the recipe from six servings to fifteen, then decrease it to two.

Deemer stalked among them, criticizing, ruler in hand. He spent an especially long time among the youngest pupils, who hadn't known such ciphering existed until now. By the time he moved on many of them were weeping, just as Medford had feared.

Essence sat at her new desk paying no attention to anything, not even the tears of her New Learners. Fordy Tanner, three seats away in the Middle Learners section, tried to signal her for help with his calculations. She didn't notice, just stared up at the huge map of
Island and Surrounding Waters
on the auditorium's front wall.

When he finished his figures Medford studied the map, too, trying to see what Essence saw. The map showed every stream and pond on Island, the blueberry ground to the north, the mountains to the southeast, even the older houses. Out at sea, dotted lines marked the shoals and ledges that ringed Island at low tide. It took a canny sailor to reach Town Harbor even at high tide—you had to know the ocean bottom like your kitchen floor.