Read Online Ambergate by Patricia Elliott - Free Book Online Page B

clutching the amber at my neck. The light was strong after so many days in darkness.
     It was as if I’d emerged from the cellar. I rubbed my dazzled eyes, and the light softened into a green-brown water-world.
    I saw the grass-and-wattle dome of the shelter where I spent my days. I saw shingle and tall grass and pools, glistening like
     tears, all the way to the rim of the sky. There were islands of silver birch and gorse, with bright yellow flowers like tiny
     drops of egg yolk, and high in the sky, seagulls wailing over a strange, flat land.
    It was the first time I had raised my head to look at it. I took my hand away from the amber. “It’s beautiful!”
But there’s too much space
, I thought.
    “It’s a wild, magic place, with its own rules,” said Erland. “You have to respect it.”
    He began to pick his way along a finger of shingle between water and reeds. His leather bag swung against his side. He wore
     no jacket over his rough calico shirt, as if it were already summer; his hair shone in the sun. I knew he was smiling again,
     a secret smile, at the fairness of the day.
    My legs were weak from lying around so long, and it was difficult to keep up. Erland was disappearing into a sea of reeds;
     at my feet, silver water oozed over the shingle. “Wait!” I wailed.
    He halted at once. His contrite face looked back at me.
    “For a moment I forgot,” he said, and held out his hand to guide me.
    I should talk to him in an interesting way
, I thought,
then he won’t forget me
. But I didn’t know what to say. I knew he wasn’t one for idle conversation; he would be more used to birds and fish than
     girls. The silence grew heavy between us, but Erland seemed content with it, looking ahead, his face lifted to the sun. After
     we had been walking on firmer shingle for some time, I could bear it no longer.
    “Where do you fish?”
    “By the river or in the creeks,” he said, still gazing ahead.
    “Sometimes I cast from the bank, sometimes take the punt out.”
    “What’s a punt?”
    “A long boat, flat-bottomed. You pole it through the water. My father uses it when he cuts reeds for thatch.”
    I stared about, seeing nothing but tall grasses and splinters of still water. “Where are the creeks?”
    “You come on them suddenly. The river’s not far off, running near parallel with the sea. There’s more water than land in the
     Wasteland.”
    “Gadd cuts the reeds in summer?”
    Erland nodded. “He’s only two months at most to cut and spread. If I’m here, I help him.”
    “Spread?”
    “You spread the reeds out to dry them,” he said patiently. “You have to dry them in the open air. He’ll harvest by moonlight
     too, if the night’s clear.”
    “What does he do all winter?” I said, nonplussed.
    He gave a sudden laugh. “Struggles to keep himself and the animals alive. It’s hard, here on the Wasteland. If he’s time to
     spare, he weaves baskets and matting.”
    “And you? What do you do?”
    “It’s hard enough making a living for one, let alone two. My work takes me elsewhere. But if I’m here, I’ll sail the dory
     down to Poorgrass Kayes for him—sell his work in the market.”
    I did not want to think about Poorgrass Kayes. My legs ached; there was no sign of the river. “Let me sit a minute,” I begged.
    Erland nodded, and I sank down on the bright turf, between cushions of pale pink thrift. The water around us mirrored the
     reeds: I could see the sky reflected, a gull winging overhead. I leaned forward, parting the reeds, and suddenly saw a face
     gazing back: large eyes; pallid cheeks; long, matted hair.
I’m ugly now
, I thought.
    Erland sat down beside me and unfastened his leather bag. He took out a long mahogany box. “This was my grandmother’s toiletry
     box.”
    With great reverence he showed me what was lying on the faded silk lining inside: two yellowing lace collars; some faded hair
     ribbons, neatly rolled; a little waxy square of what looked like