child before it hit the water, and tossed it onto the burlap rags. Then, without the slightest acknowledgment of what had happened, they continued paddling. There was no point in talking about it. Abysmillard could not have talked about it even had he wished to do so. For him, thick tongue-tied stump that he was, it was as if nothing had happened. And as far as the other two were concerned, there was now another mouth to feed, another child who would laugh and giggle in the huts.
H E WAS one of them until he reached the age of twelve. They had called him Peter, and then, to tell him apart from the several other boys of the same name, had chosen for him a last name that fit the way they thought of him—as the child pulled from the lake. He quickly learned most of what they had to teach, and was good at the things they did. There was no formal training, and the children just picked up the skills of the Baymen as they grew. For example, the ability they had with swords was unequaled, demanding extraordinary strength and coordination. But, more than that, it required a free path to the deed of the blade itself, as if it had already been done and needed only to be confirmed. Peter Lake learned the sword at a stroke, when he was eleven.
He had been in the back of a canoe, paddling for Humpstone John as the old man threw out his weighted circle net. They saw a figure walking toward them along the flats that led to the cloud wall, which that day was turbulent and gray. When it was upset, it often did strange things. The man who approached seemed to have come from the barrier itself. He was dazed but pugnacious, either some sort of ancient Japanese warrior or an escapee from an asylum on Cape May. He came directly at them, hand on his sword, shouting in the strangest language that Humpstone John or Peter Lake had ever heard. It wasn’t English, and it wasn’t Bay. Surmising that the newcomer thought he was in another time or another country, Humpstone John said, “This is the marsh. You probably want Manhattan. If you stop shouting, we’ll take you there, where you’ll probably find others like yourself, and even if not, it’s not the kind of place where anyone will notice your out landish modes. And will you please stop your jabbering and speak English.”
The warrior responded by stepping forward knee-deep in the water in a rapid pivoting stance that indicated the onset of combat. Humpstone John suspected that no matter how conciliatory he might be, there was going to be a fight. He sighed as the samurai, or whatever he was, drew a long silver sword and rushed the boat, screaming like someone who has been pushed off a cliff. Humpstone John threw his round net in the air, withdrew the broadsword from its scabbard, and handed it to Peter Lake. “You try it,” he said. “It’s a good way to learn.”
The samurai charged toward them with deafening screams.
“Where do I hold it?” Peter Lake asked.
“Where do you hold what?”
“The sword.”
“By the handle, of course. Hurry, now....”
The warrior stood two feet from the canoe. His long heavy blade stretched from the back of his head to his ankles, held executioner’s style before an impending stroke. His face was grimaced so that he looked like a blowfish. The sword began to travel.
“You’d better block that blow,” Humpstone John said calmly. Peter Lake held his broadsword perpendicular to that of his opponent—just in time for a chilling clash of metal against metal.
“Now what, John?” Peter Lake said, as the warrior’s sword slid off his own and cut deep into the gunwales of the canoe.
“Try an upward stroke under his sword arm. Quickly.”
“He uses both arms, John,” Peter Lake answered, ducking his head as a whining blow passed almost invisibly where his neck had been.
“That’s true, I warrant.” Humpstone John thought for a moment. “Try either one.”
The opposing swordsman uttered a terrifying cry as he thrust his blade in a
H E WAS one of them until he reached the age of twelve. They had called him Peter, and then, to tell him apart from the several other boys of the same name, had chosen for him a last name that fit the way they thought of him—as the child pulled from the lake. He quickly learned most of what they had to teach, and was good at the things they did. There was no formal training, and the children just picked up the skills of the Baymen as they grew. For example, the ability they had with swords was unequaled, demanding extraordinary strength and coordination. But, more than that, it required a free path to the deed of the blade itself, as if it had already been done and needed only to be confirmed. Peter Lake learned the sword at a stroke, when he was eleven.
He had been in the back of a canoe, paddling for Humpstone John as the old man threw out his weighted circle net. They saw a figure walking toward them along the flats that led to the cloud wall, which that day was turbulent and gray. When it was upset, it often did strange things. The man who approached seemed to have come from the barrier itself. He was dazed but pugnacious, either some sort of ancient Japanese warrior or an escapee from an asylum on Cape May. He came directly at them, hand on his sword, shouting in the strangest language that Humpstone John or Peter Lake had ever heard. It wasn’t English, and it wasn’t Bay. Surmising that the newcomer thought he was in another time or another country, Humpstone John said, “This is the marsh. You probably want Manhattan. If you stop shouting, we’ll take you there, where you’ll probably find others like yourself, and even if not, it’s not the kind of place where anyone will notice your out landish modes. And will you please stop your jabbering and speak English.”
The warrior responded by stepping forward knee-deep in the water in a rapid pivoting stance that indicated the onset of combat. Humpstone John suspected that no matter how conciliatory he might be, there was going to be a fight. He sighed as the samurai, or whatever he was, drew a long silver sword and rushed the boat, screaming like someone who has been pushed off a cliff. Humpstone John threw his round net in the air, withdrew the broadsword from its scabbard, and handed it to Peter Lake. “You try it,” he said. “It’s a good way to learn.”
The samurai charged toward them with deafening screams.
“Where do I hold it?” Peter Lake asked.
“Where do you hold what?”
“The sword.”
“By the handle, of course. Hurry, now....”
The warrior stood two feet from the canoe. His long heavy blade stretched from the back of his head to his ankles, held executioner’s style before an impending stroke. His face was grimaced so that he looked like a blowfish. The sword began to travel.
“You’d better block that blow,” Humpstone John said calmly. Peter Lake held his broadsword perpendicular to that of his opponent—just in time for a chilling clash of metal against metal.
“Now what, John?” Peter Lake said, as the warrior’s sword slid off his own and cut deep into the gunwales of the canoe.
“Try an upward stroke under his sword arm. Quickly.”
“He uses both arms, John,” Peter Lake answered, ducking his head as a whining blow passed almost invisibly where his neck had been.
“That’s true, I warrant.” Humpstone John thought for a moment. “Try either one.”
The opposing swordsman uttered a terrifying cry as he thrust his blade in a
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