lady!” from Wesley, Owen thought he saw the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
Wesley walked quickly, even in his bare feet, and Owen had trouble keeping up. They left the Workhouse and Wesley started on a path that followed the river down to the sea, curving toward the town and the harbor. At first Owen fired questions at Wesley, but the boy only turned and grinned at him and pressed on even harder. They came to the place where a new concrete bridge had crossed the road between the town and his house, but there was no bridge and no road. Owen climbed up the riverbank. Despite everything he had been told, he still expected to see the familiar streets of the town.
The town was there, but with a sinking feeling Owen saw that it looked as if it had been abandoned for a hundred years. The houses and shops were roofless and windows gaped blank and sightless. The main street was a strip of matted grass and small trees, and ivy and other creeperswrapped themselves round broken telegraph poles. Where new buildings had once stood there was bare ground or the protruding foundations of older buildings. The rusty skeleton of what had once been a bus sat at right angles in the middle of the street. A gust of wind stirred the heads of the grasses and the trees and blew through the bare roofs of the houses with a melancholy whistling sound.
Owen slipped back down the riverbank. The town was starting to crumble back into time, taking with it the memory of the people who had once walked its streets. He remembered what Cati had said about living things growing young but the things made by man decaying as time reeled backward.
“Never pay no mind,” Wesley said gentry. “That's just the way it is now. All them things can be put right if we put old Ma Time back the way she should be, running like a big clock going forward. You just stick with us. We’ll put all yon people back in their minutes and hours, and Ma Time, she’ll put us boys back to sleep again. Come on,” he said, lifting Owen to his feet, “let's get on down to the harbor.”
This time Wesley walked alongside Owen. The water in the river got deeper as they approached the harbor and Owen found himself veering away from it, which Wesley noticed.
“That's what I heard,” he said, with something like satisfaction, “that you can’t abide the water.”
“Who told you that?” demanded Owen.
“They was all talking about it,” Wesley said, “that the new boy, Time's recruit, did fear the water.”
“I don’t like it too much,” Owen said.
Wesley rounded on him sharply, his face close to Owen's, his voice suddenly low and urgent.
“Do not be saying that to anyone. No one. Do you not know? I reckon not. The Harsh cannot cross any water—not fresh nor salt—and the touch of it revolts them unless they can first make ice of it. If any see you afeared of water, they will think you Harsh or a creature of the Harsh.”
Owen remembered how the long-haired man, Samual, had reacted when he had seen Owen's foot touch the water. “I think they know already,” he said slowly.
“Then it will be hard on you,” Wesley said, “it will be fierce hard.”
“You don’t think I’m one of the Harsh, do you?” Owen said. His voice trembled slightly, but Wesley just threw his head back and laughed.
“Harsh. You? No, I don’t think you’re Harsh. I think you’re like one of us, the Raggies. You been abandoned and the world treats you bad, and even though you ain’t as thin as Raggies, I do know a hunger when I see it.”
Owen didn’t expect the harbor to look the same and he wasn’t disappointed. The metal cranes were twisted and rusted. Most of the sheds had gone and the fish-processing factory was a roofless shell. The boats were still tied up, but it was a ghost fleet. The metal-hulled boats lay halfsunk in oily water. The wooden boats had fared better and some of them still floated, but the paint had long faded from them, and their metal
Wesley walked quickly, even in his bare feet, and Owen had trouble keeping up. They left the Workhouse and Wesley started on a path that followed the river down to the sea, curving toward the town and the harbor. At first Owen fired questions at Wesley, but the boy only turned and grinned at him and pressed on even harder. They came to the place where a new concrete bridge had crossed the road between the town and his house, but there was no bridge and no road. Owen climbed up the riverbank. Despite everything he had been told, he still expected to see the familiar streets of the town.
The town was there, but with a sinking feeling Owen saw that it looked as if it had been abandoned for a hundred years. The houses and shops were roofless and windows gaped blank and sightless. The main street was a strip of matted grass and small trees, and ivy and other creeperswrapped themselves round broken telegraph poles. Where new buildings had once stood there was bare ground or the protruding foundations of older buildings. The rusty skeleton of what had once been a bus sat at right angles in the middle of the street. A gust of wind stirred the heads of the grasses and the trees and blew through the bare roofs of the houses with a melancholy whistling sound.
Owen slipped back down the riverbank. The town was starting to crumble back into time, taking with it the memory of the people who had once walked its streets. He remembered what Cati had said about living things growing young but the things made by man decaying as time reeled backward.
“Never pay no mind,” Wesley said gentry. “That's just the way it is now. All them things can be put right if we put old Ma Time back the way she should be, running like a big clock going forward. You just stick with us. We’ll put all yon people back in their minutes and hours, and Ma Time, she’ll put us boys back to sleep again. Come on,” he said, lifting Owen to his feet, “let's get on down to the harbor.”
This time Wesley walked alongside Owen. The water in the river got deeper as they approached the harbor and Owen found himself veering away from it, which Wesley noticed.
“That's what I heard,” he said, with something like satisfaction, “that you can’t abide the water.”
“Who told you that?” demanded Owen.
“They was all talking about it,” Wesley said, “that the new boy, Time's recruit, did fear the water.”
“I don’t like it too much,” Owen said.
Wesley rounded on him sharply, his face close to Owen's, his voice suddenly low and urgent.
“Do not be saying that to anyone. No one. Do you not know? I reckon not. The Harsh cannot cross any water—not fresh nor salt—and the touch of it revolts them unless they can first make ice of it. If any see you afeared of water, they will think you Harsh or a creature of the Harsh.”
Owen remembered how the long-haired man, Samual, had reacted when he had seen Owen's foot touch the water. “I think they know already,” he said slowly.
“Then it will be hard on you,” Wesley said, “it will be fierce hard.”
“You don’t think I’m one of the Harsh, do you?” Owen said. His voice trembled slightly, but Wesley just threw his head back and laughed.
“Harsh. You? No, I don’t think you’re Harsh. I think you’re like one of us, the Raggies. You been abandoned and the world treats you bad, and even though you ain’t as thin as Raggies, I do know a hunger when I see it.”
Owen didn’t expect the harbor to look the same and he wasn’t disappointed. The metal cranes were twisted and rusted. Most of the sheds had gone and the fish-processing factory was a roofless shell. The boats were still tied up, but it was a ghost fleet. The metal-hulled boats lay halfsunk in oily water. The wooden boats had fared better and some of them still floated, but the paint had long faded from them, and their metal
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