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Authors: Ellen Booraem
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âA Frugall Compendium of Home Arts and Farme Chores by Capability C. Craft (1680), as Amended and Annotated by the Island Council of Names (1718â1809)
M EDFORD OPENED his eyes to a cloudless blue sky above. And that horrible, dense, complicated smell everywhere. He closed his eyes again.
If he kept his eyes closed long enough and didn't breathe much, he decided, the world would be back to normal when he opened them again.
He'd never fainted before, although he knew what fainting was. The Book said you should hold Spirits of Treesap under someone's nose when he fainted. He spent a pleasant minute or two wondering whether he still had any under the sink.
Then his brain returned, reluctantly, to the reason he'd fainted. There was a man with horns. There were hooves where there shouldn't be. A Herding Creature, a dog.
He'd never been so close to a dog before. The Shepherds kept to themselves in Island's wild, lonely southeast highlands, and the creatures were of no Use to anyone else.
He'd had no idea they smelled so bad.
He'd never seen a man with horns and hooves. Were there Mainlanders who looked like that? The Trade drivers wore colorful shirts and trousers of a stiff blue material, but otherwise they looked just like Islanders. He'd never heard of one with horns.
The thought came to him like a bucket of pond ice dumped on his head.
Cordelia Weaver. The man in her Unnameable Woven Object. His hat was really horns.
Just like the horn he'd carved into Twig's trencher earlier today.
He wouldn't think about that.
Someone lapped his face.
Please let it be the dog,
he thought. He opened his eyes. The dog backed off a yard or so, sat down, and proudly stank.
The man sat a few feet away chewing on a blade of grass. His staff was on the ground, a handsome piece of Wheelwood with carving Medford wouldn't have minded seeing closer.
The man had his legs crossed, his robe hitched up. This gave Medford a chance to see that in addition to hooves his visitor had the skinniest, hairiest shins he'd ever seen. The shins of a goat, in factâa Lesser Horned Milk Creature if you felt Bookish.
He wondered how far up the goat parts went. What he could see of the man's upper body looked human.
Except for the horns.
The man took the blade of grass out of his mouth and flicked it away. "Do you feel be-e-etter?" he said. At least that's what it sounded like to Medford.
"Aye," Medford said. The man's speech, not to mention the horns and goat shins, made him queasy. But he had to admit the creature had done nothing to threaten him.
He'd never met a stranger before, even one
without
horns. He tried to decide what to say. "Who are you?" and "You talk funny" seemed rude. "Is that a hat?" was no better.
"What is that smell?" Medford said. He felt himself turn red.
But the man didn't seem to mind. "Sti-i-inky rolled in a dead bird," he said. "She likes to sme-e-ell like dead things. The smell fools the pre-e-ey."
The dog wasn't the only stinky one. In fact, the really complex smells belonged to the man. The wet wool socks smell, certainly, and the wet hay and another sort of gamy odor Medford couldn't identify. And something spicy and something rancid andâ
"Makes the little cr-i-i-itters think,
Not to worry, only a dead bird walking along.
And then, surpri-i-ise! It turns out to be a dog and ... disgusting things ha-a-a-appen."
"Why do you talk so strange?" Medford said.
"I do not," the man said. His bushy eyebrows twitched together. A gust of wind ruffled his hair, then subsided.
"Beg pardon," Medford said hastily. "Is ... Stinky the name of your dog?"
The man threw back his head and made the most Unnameable sound Medford had ever heard. It sounded like "Bweh-eh-eh-eh-eh." It sounded even windier and grassier than the man's regular speech. "Her na-a-ame," the man said to the sky. "Heh."
"Her name is funny?"
The man beamed as if Medford had said something smart. His teeth were uneven yellow
âA Frugall Compendium of Home Arts and Farme Chores by Capability C. Craft (1680), as Amended and Annotated by the Island Council of Names (1718â1809)
M EDFORD OPENED his eyes to a cloudless blue sky above. And that horrible, dense, complicated smell everywhere. He closed his eyes again.
If he kept his eyes closed long enough and didn't breathe much, he decided, the world would be back to normal when he opened them again.
He'd never fainted before, although he knew what fainting was. The Book said you should hold Spirits of Treesap under someone's nose when he fainted. He spent a pleasant minute or two wondering whether he still had any under the sink.
Then his brain returned, reluctantly, to the reason he'd fainted. There was a man with horns. There were hooves where there shouldn't be. A Herding Creature, a dog.
He'd never been so close to a dog before. The Shepherds kept to themselves in Island's wild, lonely southeast highlands, and the creatures were of no Use to anyone else.
He'd had no idea they smelled so bad.
He'd never seen a man with horns and hooves. Were there Mainlanders who looked like that? The Trade drivers wore colorful shirts and trousers of a stiff blue material, but otherwise they looked just like Islanders. He'd never heard of one with horns.
The thought came to him like a bucket of pond ice dumped on his head.
Cordelia Weaver. The man in her Unnameable Woven Object. His hat was really horns.
Just like the horn he'd carved into Twig's trencher earlier today.
He wouldn't think about that.
Someone lapped his face.
Please let it be the dog,
he thought. He opened his eyes. The dog backed off a yard or so, sat down, and proudly stank.
The man sat a few feet away chewing on a blade of grass. His staff was on the ground, a handsome piece of Wheelwood with carving Medford wouldn't have minded seeing closer.
The man had his legs crossed, his robe hitched up. This gave Medford a chance to see that in addition to hooves his visitor had the skinniest, hairiest shins he'd ever seen. The shins of a goat, in factâa Lesser Horned Milk Creature if you felt Bookish.
He wondered how far up the goat parts went. What he could see of the man's upper body looked human.
Except for the horns.
The man took the blade of grass out of his mouth and flicked it away. "Do you feel be-e-etter?" he said. At least that's what it sounded like to Medford.
"Aye," Medford said. The man's speech, not to mention the horns and goat shins, made him queasy. But he had to admit the creature had done nothing to threaten him.
He'd never met a stranger before, even one
without
horns. He tried to decide what to say. "Who are you?" and "You talk funny" seemed rude. "Is that a hat?" was no better.
"What is that smell?" Medford said. He felt himself turn red.
But the man didn't seem to mind. "Sti-i-inky rolled in a dead bird," he said. "She likes to sme-e-ell like dead things. The smell fools the pre-e-ey."
The dog wasn't the only stinky one. In fact, the really complex smells belonged to the man. The wet wool socks smell, certainly, and the wet hay and another sort of gamy odor Medford couldn't identify. And something spicy and something rancid andâ
"Makes the little cr-i-i-itters think,
Not to worry, only a dead bird walking along.
And then, surpri-i-ise! It turns out to be a dog and ... disgusting things ha-a-a-appen."
"Why do you talk so strange?" Medford said.
"I do not," the man said. His bushy eyebrows twitched together. A gust of wind ruffled his hair, then subsided.
"Beg pardon," Medford said hastily. "Is ... Stinky the name of your dog?"
The man threw back his head and made the most Unnameable sound Medford had ever heard. It sounded like "Bweh-eh-eh-eh-eh." It sounded even windier and grassier than the man's regular speech. "Her na-a-ame," the man said to the sky. "Heh."
"Her name is funny?"
The man beamed as if Medford had said something smart. His teeth were uneven yellow
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