The Unnameables (5 page)

One of the older, printed pages at the front of the book offered Capability C. Craft's cure for a bad chest cold. Medford remembered it well—he could still smell the cloth, soaked in oil and hot pepper, that Boyce had wrapped around his chest that time.

Another page, handwritten in the back by some early Islander, spelled out the Transition ritual.
The First Daye of the Sowing Moone, bring together in Towne Hall all Children of 14 yeare ...

When Prudy took a turn on the stool, she hadn't been up there five minutes when she sucked in her breath. "This may be it," she whispered. "
Thou and the Unnameable,
it says. What a strange way to put it."

"Just read it," Medford whispered, looking over his shoulder.

"
If it hath no Use, it needeth no Name, and wilt do thee no Harm,
" Prudy intoned, her nose two inches from the page. "We know that already.
Turn thy Back and 'tis gone. The Unnameable is another thing entire. Take care, or
thou
shalt be Gone.
"

"We've heard that, too."

"But there's more," Prudy said. "
Beware, lest thou stare at the Nameless thing for too long. Thou, and only thou, canst Transform the unnamed to the Unnameable. And then in Truth thou shalt be Gone.
"

Downstairs, the front door creaked open. Floorboards squawked and the Council office door closed. "That," Prudy said, heaving the Book shut in defeat, "makes no sense at all."

Sense or no, Medford thought as they crept outside, he'd better stop staring at Nameless things. And the ones under his bed ... he'd destroy them and make no more.

Medford was so busy thinking about this, walking down the sidewalk at Prudy's side, that he didn't notice when the moment he'd been dreading crept up on him.

"Let's take bread and cheese to Bog Island and talk about all this," Prudy said.

He almost said, "Aye, let's." But then he remembered Boyce, just that morning.

How would he explain to Prudy why he couldn't go to Bog Island? If the words existed, they weren't anyplace where Medford could reach them.

One more time couldn't possibly hurt, could it? Of course not. He'd think of a way to tell her. Later.

They went to Prudy's house for provisions. Prudy's mother, Clarity Potter, was sitting at the kitchen table, yawning.

"Art thou just getting up?" Prudy asked, the disapproval in her voice verging on Rude Speech to a Parent, expressly forbidden by the Book.

"I worked late last night, dear one," Clarity said, smiling at her sleepily. "Until past four of the clock."

"Why canst thou not work in the day?" Prudy muttered, opening the ice chest to look for cheese.

"
Let not the Sunset curtail thy Usefulness,
" Clarity said. "'Tis in the Book."

"
Rise afore the Sun that thy Day be of Use,
" Prudy retorted. "Here's the bread, Medford. Slice it thick."

"Going to Bog Island?" Clarity asked, as if Prudy hadn't spoken so harshly.

"I ... I don't know," Medford said. What if Clarity talked to Boyce later and said where they were going?

Prudy shot him a questioning glance. She looked like her mother—pale hair, blue eyes, broad face, rosy softness over stone—but their expressions right now were opposite. Clarity was drowsily sipping milky tea out of a mug she'd made herself, her hair in a loose bun, blotchy red cheeks the only sign that she was not at peace. Prudy chopped cheese with sharp, sullen strokes, back straight, braids aquiver.

"Why are you so angry at her?" Medford asked as they headed down Harborside Road.

"People will talk about the hours she keeps," Prudy said. "'Tis not right."

"She turns out enough pots."

"Not enough for all those hours. She must be slow at night. She's always tired."

"'Tis not worth such a fuss. Let's run." And so they did, all the way to Peat Bog, shaking Prudy out of her bad mood.

They hadn't visited the bog for a couple of weeks. They were shocked to see how many rose- and brass-colored leaves had fallen, floating bright in the dark pools between hummocks of peat and grass. They skittered along their path of fallen logs, then crawled like critters through the bramble archway to solid ground.

Another shock awaited them. The largest tree on Bog Island, some scrawny and Nameless relative of the Sap Tree, had been uprooted in the same winds that had stirred up the waves last week at Seaweed Beach. Dying needles clung sadly to the branches, and the green moss had a ragged black gash where the roots had been.

"Oh, poor tree," Prudy said, patting the trunk.

Medford squatted down next to the hole left by the roots, feeling ridiculously sad. It was a Nameless tree, no loss to anyone. But the roots looked so forlorn, the ruptured earth so painful.

Prudy threw down her food satchel and stood, arms out, eyes closed, basking in the sun. Medford watched a worm explore the hole where the tree roots had been. The worm curled upright and poked its nose at a funny, square rock half buried to one side.

Medford poked at the rock, too. But it wasn't a rock. It felt cold, like metal.

He looked closer. It had a lid. "Prudy. There's something buried here." He stepped into the hole, moved the worm out of his way, and scrabbled at the earth. The thing proved to be a metal box, black, battered, and scratched, more than a foot square.

They had to break the lock with a stone. The hinges broke as the lid creaked open. A strong, musty smell greeted them.

"Cloth," Prudy whispered, peering in. "Not Common Stuff, either."

The cloth had so many colors that at first Medford thought autumn leaves must have fallen into the box. When he unfolded it, something fell out: a thin book a foot long, like the one Boyce kept as a journal and Trade record. Prudy snatched it up.

Medford had eyes only for the cloth. Where would such colors come from? Who would put them on a piece of cloth? The threads had been cunningly woven—he couldn't imagine how—to make a flat representation of a man. Sort of a man.

Not really a man, because he had horns. They drooped from his crown, weighed down by the pewter-colored balls at the tips. But of course it wasn't horns. It was a hat, an outlandish hat.

"Cordelia Weaver," Prudy said. "'Tis her journal. In 1830 she wrote it."

It was hard to decipher Cordelia's handwriting, faded to light tan. The pages were dusty with mildew. When Prudy turned them, pieces came off in her fingers.

"Careful," Medford said.

"I'll just find the last entry," Prudy said.

She found it near the back of the book,
Third Daye of the Sowing Moon
at the top of the page. She held it close to her nose and squinted at it. "
Merit Learned upbraided me today for Unnameable weaving,
" she read. "Huh. Merit Learned. Sounds just like Prune Face.
Master Learned said I be wasting my time seeking roots and soils for color and the Clothe be not warm nor Useful. I must leave this Island and he will burn my Weavings. One only will I save from the greedy Flames, the one that doth depict my secret Friend from afar. I will Bury it with my Journal.
"

They contemplated the cloth man's droopy hat with the pewter-colored balls on it.

"That explains the funny hat," Medford said. "He's not from here."

"
I would know,
" Prudy read, "
as I tread the unknown
world beyond the water, that one of my Nameless objects doth survive me. Stay, my creation, and tell our Descendants that Cordelia Weaver dwelt here and saw a World in Coloured Thread.
"

Medford wondered why his heart lifted so when he looked at such Useless stuff.

"Well," Prudy said, standing up. "We know what we must do with this."

"Must do?" Medford couldn't take his eyes off the man in the cloth.

"We'll take it to Deemer Learned. 'Tis an Unnameable, the woman said so herself."

Medford frowned, tried to concentrate. "Deemer Learned."

"Of course. He'll want to burn this."

Medford imagined a hole in the cloth man's chest, expanding into ash. "No," he heard himself say, before his brain knew anything about it. "We'll bury the box again."

He hardly ever disagreed with Prudy. He looked up at her and nearly gasped. She was chewing on a braid—nothing new about that—but her eyes were hard and stern in a way that scared him.

"'Tis an Unnameable," she said. "It scares me. It must be gone."

"If we bury it again 'twill be gone," Medford said. He felt desperate, as if this cloth man was important to him.

"I'll know 'tis here. Every time we come here I'll know." Prudy's voice trembled. "People who make such things would destroy us. They deserve to be gone and their works consigned to fire." She sounded so fierce.

"But you
like
knowing things," Medford said.

"Real things. I like to know ... things that are Useful to know about. Things that wont ... make me gone."

"You'll still know about this even if it be burnt."

"I don't want it under my feet. 'Twill talk to me when we're here."

Medford couldn't put it off any longer. "Prudy, Boyce says we can't come here anymore anyways. He says we're too old and people talk." He couldn't look at her. He watched a leaf fall, three leaves, five, six. The season was aging fast.

"My parents don't care. They laughed when I told them what Arvid said."

"Boyce is not laughing. He says not to draw attention to myself."

"Fine." The book thumped into the metal box. "Fine. Bury this object as you like. Or throw it in the bog. I won't stay and watch."

"Prudy." But by the time he was on his feet she was gone.

Medford wrapped the journal in the cloth, repacked the box, got the lid to close as tight as he could. Digging another hole with a stick and throwing in the dirt was like burying a coffin. He planted a mat of moss on top, though he doubted it would take root this late in the season.

"There, Cordelia Weaver," he said. "Thy cloth man is safe for another to find."

Brent Weaver returned from the Trade with a Useful object, a garment like a shirt but knitted of yarn thicker than for hose, lighter than for a cap. Calls it a Sweater. 'Tis warm and keeps out the wet to a goodly extent.

—Journal of Prosper Glazer, 1900

O
N THE PATH HOME
he found Boyce scouting trees for carving stock.

"I just saw Prudy," Boyce said.

"Aye."

"Were you on Bog Island together?"

"I told her we couldn't go again."

"I told thee not to go this time."

"Aye."

They examined opposite tree trunks.

"If thou wilt not do as I ask, I cannot help thee," Boyce said.

"I'm sorry, Boyce. 'Twon't happen again."

"I suppose thou wouldst move to thine own house after Transition."

Would he? Medford hadn't considered such a thing.

"We can talk to the Council about claiming land for thee outside Town. Trade with Twig to build a cabin."

Medford's vision fogged. He blinked back the tears. It was true then. Boyce didn't want him around. "I'm sorry about Bog Island, Boyce," he said again.

'"Tisn't that."

"Would I still work with thee?" His voice didn't shake. He was proud of that.

"Sometimes. But thou wouldst work alone as well and trade through me."

"Will they let me be called Carver?"

Boyce dug the toe of his shoe under a root, pulled up on it. It gave a little but not much. "They ain't quick to embrace new ideas. Nothing against you, Medford."

"Aye. Well, I'll see you at ... at your house, Boyce."

"See you at the house, boy."

Medford was walking away when Boyce said to a sapling, "Or you could help me scout trees."

Medford just couldn't, not with these tears welling up. "Do you need me to, Boyce? Because I'd rather run some more."

"You run then, boy. I'll get something at Cook's for our supper."

And so Medford ran. Alone. He ran alone the next day, too. And the day after that. When he wasn't outdoors he stayed in Boyce's workshop and sanded until his shoulders ached. He didn't catch sight of Prudy and didn't try to. Best to let time pass, forget Cordelia and her cloth man, bury them once and for all.

When Book Learning started up again for the week, he walked into the auditorium to see Prudy standing in front of the lectern, head bowed, while Deemer talked at her, bending in close to her ear.

Prudy's normally rosy cheeks were ashen and she had circles under her eyes like charcoal. Medford wanted to pull her away from Deemer, run with her out the door and back to Bog Island. Instead he walked to his desk and put his dinner satchel inside.

"Master Runyuin," Deemer snapped, "help Mistress Carpenter carry her desk to the New Learners section. They will be her charge from now on."

Prudy didn't look at him, just walked to her desk.

He joined her there. "Prudy," he whispered, "what is happening?"

"Silence!" Deemer slammed his ruler on the lectern.

Prudy spent the day instructing the New Learners. They clustered around her like chicks around a hen, even during the midday dinner. Medford couldn't get near her.

He watched her, though. Sometimes she relaxed, even laughed at the antics of the young ones in her charge. But when the older students were working on their own Deemer would join her, instruct her, chide her for letting the New Learners giggle too much, say he must "rid thee of thy Carpenterish glee." The light would leave her face and again Medford wanted to take her hand and dash outside.

When Book Learning ended for the day, Medford waited for Prudy at the door to the auditorium. But Deemer was with her and she gave Medford a look that told him to keep his peace. He stepped aside and she followed Deemer up the stairs to the Archives.

They couldn't make her be a Learned. Someone had to stop it, but Medford didn't know whom he should talk to. The Council? Prudy's parents?

He tried Boyce first. Boyce didn't even stop sanding to think about it. "Stay out of this, boy. 'Tis just Deemer trying to become Twig, same as when they were young ones."