Read Online The Unnameables by Ellen Booraem - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ellen Booraem
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stumps. "I am on my ramble," he said, as if that explained everything.
"You're on ... what?"
"You ask about the dog's na-a-ame. She has none."
"But ... you called herâ"
"She sti-i-inks," said the man. "Right now she sti-i-inks. Tomorrow I'll call her something else." He thought about that. "Mi-i-ight not, though."
The dog waggled the tip of her tail, wafting odor.
Medford's brain had rusted up. "So her name changesâ"
"She has no na-a-ame," the man said patiently. "I have no na-a-ame. If you must call me something right away ca-a-all me the Goatman, since I am the only goatman here."
"You have no name," Medford said.
"Na-a-ames weigh us down," the Goatman said. "Tie us to a rock."
"No name," Medford said.
"Lock us in a cage. Hold us i-i-in a house."
No name. Horns.
Medford found that he was extremely calm.
Good news,
his brain said.
None of this is actually happening.
He discovered that he was on his feet and walking. He walked up the front steps, across the porch, and through the door to his cabin, shutting it behind him. He walked into his bedroom and shut that door, too.
Then, although it was only afternoon and he had neither eaten supper nor brushed his teeth, he went to bed. He fell asleep immediately with his clothes on.
He slept straight through the night, rolling over exactly twice. The next morning he awoke before sunrise and lay there, confused. It seemed he'd gone to bed unusually early, in his clothes, and with no food. Had he been sick? He couldn't remember.
And hadn't he had a strange dream? A vivid dream, scary. It had purple in it. Hooves. Cordelia's Unnameable Woven Object.
As he did every morning, Medford sat up and wriggled down to the bottom of the bed to lean against the windowsill and watch the day begin. He tucked his blankets around him and looked out.
He knew every root and branch of the woods around his house, but at this hour they were as mysterious as Mainland, black tinged with dull green and bronze. As he watched, a wash of apple pink appeared in the sky behind the trees and the shadows lightened. Soon the world would be familiar again.
At the edge of the yard, beyond the vegetable garden, a white furry figure emerged from the woods. The white stood out against the murky trees, almost gleaming. The dog flopped onto her back, rolling and twisting, feet waggling in the air.
He heard a voice, slightly muffled. "Nightfa-a-arts," it seemed to be calling. "Where a-a-are you, Nightfarts?"
Medford thought he might like to blink but that didn't seem to be possible. The dog rolled to her feet and bounded out of sight. Then she bounced into view again, came to a dead stop, and sneezed with a great shake of her head and scattering of droplets. She trotted off in the direction of the voice.
There was something jaunty about her that made Medford smile. Then he remembered whom she was with.
It hadn't been a dream.
He shivered. He tried to imagine himself walking out onto the porch and ... doing what? Saying what? It was too much. He buried his face in his pillow, inhaled the oily earthiness of the fleece inside. He pulled the covers over his head.
Someone knocked on the front door. He waited. Whoever it was knocked again.
Trouble doth not depart,
the Book said.
Face it, thou.
Medford threw back the covers and swung his feet to the floor. He had shoes on, he discovered.
When he opened the door, the Goatman was leaning on his staff in the dim morning light, gazing out to sea. "Nice da-a-ay," he said when Medford stepped out onto the porch. "No wind."
Medford swallowed and freed up his voice. "I don't mind wind," he croaked. He swallowed again. "A breeze, anyways. I like the leaves to move."
"You do?" The Goatman turned around. Apparently Medford had said something smart again. "Can you make it do what you wa-a-ant?" He leaned forward on his staff, examining Medford's face.
"Make
what
do what I want?" Medford asked, backing up.
"The wi-i-ind," the Goatman said. His eyes were
"You're on ... what?"
"You ask about the dog's na-a-ame. She has none."
"But ... you called herâ"
"She sti-i-inks," said the man. "Right now she sti-i-inks. Tomorrow I'll call her something else." He thought about that. "Mi-i-ight not, though."
The dog waggled the tip of her tail, wafting odor.
Medford's brain had rusted up. "So her name changesâ"
"She has no na-a-ame," the man said patiently. "I have no na-a-ame. If you must call me something right away ca-a-all me the Goatman, since I am the only goatman here."
"You have no name," Medford said.
"Na-a-ames weigh us down," the Goatman said. "Tie us to a rock."
"No name," Medford said.
"Lock us in a cage. Hold us i-i-in a house."
No name. Horns.
Medford found that he was extremely calm.
Good news,
his brain said.
None of this is actually happening.
He discovered that he was on his feet and walking. He walked up the front steps, across the porch, and through the door to his cabin, shutting it behind him. He walked into his bedroom and shut that door, too.
Then, although it was only afternoon and he had neither eaten supper nor brushed his teeth, he went to bed. He fell asleep immediately with his clothes on.
He slept straight through the night, rolling over exactly twice. The next morning he awoke before sunrise and lay there, confused. It seemed he'd gone to bed unusually early, in his clothes, and with no food. Had he been sick? He couldn't remember.
And hadn't he had a strange dream? A vivid dream, scary. It had purple in it. Hooves. Cordelia's Unnameable Woven Object.
As he did every morning, Medford sat up and wriggled down to the bottom of the bed to lean against the windowsill and watch the day begin. He tucked his blankets around him and looked out.
He knew every root and branch of the woods around his house, but at this hour they were as mysterious as Mainland, black tinged with dull green and bronze. As he watched, a wash of apple pink appeared in the sky behind the trees and the shadows lightened. Soon the world would be familiar again.
At the edge of the yard, beyond the vegetable garden, a white furry figure emerged from the woods. The white stood out against the murky trees, almost gleaming. The dog flopped onto her back, rolling and twisting, feet waggling in the air.
He heard a voice, slightly muffled. "Nightfa-a-arts," it seemed to be calling. "Where a-a-are you, Nightfarts?"
Medford thought he might like to blink but that didn't seem to be possible. The dog rolled to her feet and bounded out of sight. Then she bounced into view again, came to a dead stop, and sneezed with a great shake of her head and scattering of droplets. She trotted off in the direction of the voice.
There was something jaunty about her that made Medford smile. Then he remembered whom she was with.
It hadn't been a dream.
He shivered. He tried to imagine himself walking out onto the porch and ... doing what? Saying what? It was too much. He buried his face in his pillow, inhaled the oily earthiness of the fleece inside. He pulled the covers over his head.
Someone knocked on the front door. He waited. Whoever it was knocked again.
Trouble doth not depart,
the Book said.
Face it, thou.
Medford threw back the covers and swung his feet to the floor. He had shoes on, he discovered.
When he opened the door, the Goatman was leaning on his staff in the dim morning light, gazing out to sea. "Nice da-a-ay," he said when Medford stepped out onto the porch. "No wind."
Medford swallowed and freed up his voice. "I don't mind wind," he croaked. He swallowed again. "A breeze, anyways. I like the leaves to move."
"You do?" The Goatman turned around. Apparently Medford had said something smart again. "Can you make it do what you wa-a-ant?" He leaned forward on his staff, examining Medford's face.
"Make
what
do what I want?" Medford asked, backing up.
"The wi-i-ind," the Goatman said. His eyes were
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