craft, and it had seemed to him that he saw a seabird's wing in the walking stick he was carving. He couldn't help grabbing a knife and seeing if he could bring it out a little. He would never forget the shock and the thrill of seeing that wing, feathers and all, come out of the wood under his hand.
He also remembered what happened next: Boyce's hand lunging into view and wrenching the stick away from him. Boyce broke the stick on his knee. "Would that be comfortable to hold? Just what is its Use, boy?"
Medford stared at the floor. He knew what he'd done.
"Do not do that again," Boyce said. "This is serious, a banishing thing, Medford."
But of course he did do it again. And again. Sometimes it seemed every piece of wood had a shape inside, waiting for him to find it. He had almost run out of room under his bed at Boyce's before he moved out. In his own house, he had secret carvings hidden under the bed and up on the rafters.
All the more reason to carve something he could show someone. Right now.
He got up and hurried out through the kitchen. He paused on the porch, as he often did, to breathe the lively air and look at the sea, shining in the west. But he didn't stop for long. He hastened to the southern end of the porch, which was open for storage.
The carving stock was mixed in with the firewood. He spent several minutes sorting it all out. He had lots of Tanningbark, but where was that half log of Syrup Tree? He knew he had it because he could remember ... Ah, there itâ
Something snuffled near his left ear. He felt hot, close breath, which stank. A lot. Something cold and wet touched his cheek.
Medford yelped and hurled himself back on all fours. He crab-walked backward until his head and shoulders banged up against a corner of the house.
There by the porch opening stood a shaggy white Herding Creature with black patches around its eyes. Medford knew what it was because the Shepherds brought such creaturesâthey called them dogsâinto Town now and then.
What is a dog doing here?
The creature sat down and grinned at him, its tongue hanging out the side of its mouth. Seaweed and grimy feathers were in chunks all over its back.
Something blocked the sun. Medford looked up and saw a figure standing there, impossible to make out distinctly with the sun blazing behind it. The smell assaulting his nose was so complicated he almost forgot to gag. He identified salt, something horribly decayed, several kinds of wet animal, wet wool socks, wet hay. Then his brain gave up, overwhelmed.
"Sorry to sta-a-artle you," said a low, guttural voice, a cross between falling rocks in a quarry and the wind shushing through tall grass.
Medford struggled to his feet and steadied himself against the cabin wall. He blinked the sun out of his eyes, then got a good look at the figure before him.
The man's face was long and thin, with a scraggly gray beard and bushy eyebrows. His head was bald on top, the rest covered in tangled gray hair. He was wearing a purple robe with a dirty white sash draped across his chest from right shoulder to left hip. His droopy horns were a dull white, with tarnished brass-colored knobs on the ends.
His horns
. Medford wished the ground under his feet would stop moving around.
The man had a tall staff in one hand. Leaning on it, he stepped forward and put a hand out as if he might touch Medford, although he didn't. The mans gait was funny, but Medford couldn't worry about that. He was having trouble catching his breath.
"So-o-orryâ," the man began again.
"Don't hurt me," Medford said.
The wind picked up, cool and damp, right off the ocean. The man raised his hands in the air and tottered back a couple of steps.
Which was when Medford looked down and saw that the man had hooves.
Which was when Medford fainted.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Goatman's Wind
Remark not upon the Deformities of Others, nor any little blemishes of the Skin nor soil on a Garment. Avert thine eyes if thou must, and talk
He also remembered what happened next: Boyce's hand lunging into view and wrenching the stick away from him. Boyce broke the stick on his knee. "Would that be comfortable to hold? Just what is its Use, boy?"
Medford stared at the floor. He knew what he'd done.
"Do not do that again," Boyce said. "This is serious, a banishing thing, Medford."
But of course he did do it again. And again. Sometimes it seemed every piece of wood had a shape inside, waiting for him to find it. He had almost run out of room under his bed at Boyce's before he moved out. In his own house, he had secret carvings hidden under the bed and up on the rafters.
All the more reason to carve something he could show someone. Right now.
He got up and hurried out through the kitchen. He paused on the porch, as he often did, to breathe the lively air and look at the sea, shining in the west. But he didn't stop for long. He hastened to the southern end of the porch, which was open for storage.
The carving stock was mixed in with the firewood. He spent several minutes sorting it all out. He had lots of Tanningbark, but where was that half log of Syrup Tree? He knew he had it because he could remember ... Ah, there itâ
Something snuffled near his left ear. He felt hot, close breath, which stank. A lot. Something cold and wet touched his cheek.
Medford yelped and hurled himself back on all fours. He crab-walked backward until his head and shoulders banged up against a corner of the house.
There by the porch opening stood a shaggy white Herding Creature with black patches around its eyes. Medford knew what it was because the Shepherds brought such creaturesâthey called them dogsâinto Town now and then.
What is a dog doing here?
The creature sat down and grinned at him, its tongue hanging out the side of its mouth. Seaweed and grimy feathers were in chunks all over its back.
Something blocked the sun. Medford looked up and saw a figure standing there, impossible to make out distinctly with the sun blazing behind it. The smell assaulting his nose was so complicated he almost forgot to gag. He identified salt, something horribly decayed, several kinds of wet animal, wet wool socks, wet hay. Then his brain gave up, overwhelmed.
"Sorry to sta-a-artle you," said a low, guttural voice, a cross between falling rocks in a quarry and the wind shushing through tall grass.
Medford struggled to his feet and steadied himself against the cabin wall. He blinked the sun out of his eyes, then got a good look at the figure before him.
The man's face was long and thin, with a scraggly gray beard and bushy eyebrows. His head was bald on top, the rest covered in tangled gray hair. He was wearing a purple robe with a dirty white sash draped across his chest from right shoulder to left hip. His droopy horns were a dull white, with tarnished brass-colored knobs on the ends.
His horns
. Medford wished the ground under his feet would stop moving around.
The man had a tall staff in one hand. Leaning on it, he stepped forward and put a hand out as if he might touch Medford, although he didn't. The mans gait was funny, but Medford couldn't worry about that. He was having trouble catching his breath.
"So-o-orryâ," the man began again.
"Don't hurt me," Medford said.
The wind picked up, cool and damp, right off the ocean. The man raised his hands in the air and tottered back a couple of steps.
Which was when Medford looked down and saw that the man had hooves.
Which was when Medford fainted.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Goatman's Wind
Remark not upon the Deformities of Others, nor any little blemishes of the Skin nor soil on a Garment. Avert thine eyes if thou must, and talk
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