Chapter 7
Imake my way through the hallway, the dark stairway down already disappearing from my mind, the memories feeling so unreal.
As I enter the kitchen, my little carving of the duck is still where I left it, half-finished.
So is my coffee. I pick it up and take a sip.
It’s cooled down, no longer piping hot the way I like it.
I walk out through the archway and onto the limestone, then look up, where the Reaver moves slowly across the blue. It’s a cold day, but a bright one.
I finish the coffee, then go back and pull on my boots, fastening the belt at my waist. Just in case Mero can’t find any of the blue soapstone, I can collect some more from the river. There’s no reason to spend the whole day sitting inside, waiting for them to come back.
And being under the sunlight is exactly what I need right now.
The grass brushes against my boots as I make my way down the well-ordered lawns, where they’ve tamed the wild space. I tuck my hands beneath my arms. I could have grabbed one of the hoodies that Talarin got for me, but I like that bite of autumn air. It makes me feel so alive, so much freer.
I make my way to the river, listening to the calming sound of it, and crouch to look through the stones. It’s rhythmic, turning them over, rubbing away dirt with my thumb. It keeps my mind occupied, my hands occupied.
I find one that’s too small to make anything but a duck egg.
I slide it into my pocket anyway.
Then I find a perfect piece, until I lift it to the light and realize it has a crack running through it that I didn’t notice before. I put it back. There’s no hurry. I can take as long as I want.
Eventually, I find a few pieces that feel promising. I turn them in my hands, imagining the little ducklings I could carve.
When I’m finished, there’s dirt beneath my nails, and I know Talarin will inspect me when I’m home.
So I crouch at the water and wash my hands.
The stream is icy, cold enough that it invigorates me, and I rub my hands under the cool stream, working the dirt loose, then shake off the water and stand.
My hands are still chilled when I get back to the residence, and I warm them over the low fire.
I put another log in before I take off my boots and unfasten the knife, leaving them under the bench.
Then I carry the stones over to my seat and place them carefully on the table.
I can already picture them: a few little ducklings, an egg, all the more precise with the knife Mero got me, which is so much sharper and easier to use than my rudimentary tools back in my hollow.
Then I go to the pantry and make myself a plate of bread, salted butter, and honey. I bring it to the fire, where I place the plate by the embers and let it all melt together into a delicious mush. As it warms up, I can’t resist. I make myself more coffee.
It’s funny how, when I first started drinking it, it would make me jittery, and now it seems to make me calmer and more focused. I carry the cup over, fetch my knife, and settle with a cloth across my lap. Then I take the duck and lose myself in my work.
The shape is there now. The little head, the curve of its back, the wings folded against its sides. I turn it towards the light, looking at the feathers I’ve already cut, then open the bird book beside me.
My stomach rumbles, and I realize I’ve forgotten my toast. It’s now a beautiful, sticky, delicious mess that smells heavenly, and I eat as I study the picture, then the stone.
I wish I had the skill to get it perfect. But the longer I study the picture, the more I notice how little the illustrator needed to capture the duck. A few lines, the way it holds its head, and it looks alive.
I want mine to be realistic, but I want that, too.
I finish my toast and go to wash the honey from my fingers. I know what I’m doing to myself. I’m studying the picture like it’s the only thing that exists, and I’m eager to lose myself in that fine, detailed work, where nothing else exists.
As long as I focus deeply enough, it can burn away the darkness of that place waiting below.
The place built for me.
I make a few careful changes around the duck’s head, then lose myself in the work. By the time I put the knife down, the last sips of my coffee are cold. I’m not sure why, but I down the bitter, stale brew. The shape is finished, though there are still rough places beneath my thumb.
Then I hear the estate wall grinding open.
For an instant, I think of hiding the carving beneath the stack of clothes, keeping that part of myself private. My hand moves towards them.
Then I stop.
I leave the duck in my hand.
Their voices reach me before they enter. Mero comes through first. Arrek follows, his eyes moving over me, then the cloth across my lap and the carving. He cracks his knuckles and continues past, thankfully without another sniping comment or reaching out to flick the bell.
“May I see it?”
Mero has stopped beside my seat. He leans down, and that oceanic smell reaches me, under it, the faint masculine scent that is his, and his alone, not as rank as Arrek, but more…
pungent than Talarin. He seems so different from when he came back from the failed vote.
There’s an almost youthful edge to his worn, chiseled features, a light in his eyes.
I hand it to him, feeling like I’m handing him a part of myself. He crouches lower, holding it in front of the fire, watching how the light glances off the feathers. His fingers are like dextrous marble against the stone, looking ever so strange as he turns the little bird in his hand.
“Is it finished?”
“No, it’s still rough.”
He runs a finger over the details of the folded wing. “I found what you asked for.”
With his free hand, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cloth bundle. I take it and unfold it carefully across my lap.
Blue soapstone.
Pale veins run through it. I turn it towards the light, following one with my thumb. It’s a larger piece than I imagined when I asked him. It’s perfect. I can already imagine the male mallard, with its gorgeous, vibrant feathers.
“You found it.” It’s so much better than the rough pieces I’ve worked with, and I can’t keep the excitement out of my voice, though I know I sound silly.
“I did.”
“Thank you.”
“And these.”
He produces another bundle. Small files, sheets of fine finishing sandpaper, and a little tin of wax. I set the stone down and pick up one of the files, studying its narrow tip.
This would have made the feathers easier. “What’s the wax for?”
“The sculptor I bought it from said you can use it to polish the finished surface. I wasn’t sure whether you needed it, so I just got everything he recommended.”
He sees the look on my face. “Don’t worry. It was not expensive. You have a very cheap hobby.”
Then I lift a sheet of the sandpaper and rub it lightly between my fingers. “Can I take it back? This will work beautifully.”
Mero looks down at the duck. “I like it how it is. That little roughness to it, the imperfections. It feels so alive.”
But he holds it out to me, his palm open, the duck nearly disappearing in his hand.
I consider. “Alright. Then it’s done. I’ll use the sandpaper for the eggs.”
He rises and places the duck on the mantel over the fire, turning it so its head faces into the room. “Here?”
“Okay,” I say, and then I get a wave of embarrassment. He was just in the capital, at the markets getting carving tools, and probably saw the work of alien men who studied their craft for hundreds, thousands of years. Mine must look like foolish little cave drawings next to them.
And yet, there doesn’t seem to be anything false in his praise.
I look at the little bird sitting above the flames. From my seat, I can see the curve of its head and the feathers along one side.
“Did the meeting go well?” I already know his answer.
There’s an eagerness to his face when he turns back to me. “It did.”
“What did you learn?”
“They saw one in the Rift. A big one.” Mero smiles, and there’s something chilling about it. “It was half-blinded. A burned-out eye.”
I sit a little straighter. It’s strange, I almost wish he was… not scared, exactly. But nervous, maybe. Because the way he’s talking about those things, it’s like he wants to take one down as a trophy.
“These things can be hurt,” he says. “They can be killed. We’re doing Reaver drills tonight. Live fire. But it means we have to get far enough from the estate to be firing without any risk of your being hit.” His eyes settle on me. “If we leave you after dinner, would you allow it?”
It’s strange being asked to do anything. Sit, kneel, clean up sticky seed from the floor. That’s all orders. But stay home alone, and he has to ask.
Another evening here on my own. I glance at the blue soapstone and the tools spread across my lap.
“I would. I have everything I need.”
“Good.”
“Where is Talarin?”
“Checking over the Reaver for tonight’s drills.”
I set the sandpaper beside the files and study the shape of the blue stone again. There’s enough here for several carvings, if I’m careful with it. I’m folding the cloth back around it when I hear footsteps.
Talarin comes through the archway carrying a sack. “Your books.”
He brings it over and sets it beside my seat. I look inside, then begin taking them out.
There are twenty.
Mostly mysteries. I turn one over to read the back, then pick up the next.
There’s another book about birds and one about carving, but most of them are stories I haven’t read.
I open one, glance at the first page, and have to stop myself from continuing.
There’s plenty of firewood outside, books, and anything we could need.
It’s only autumn, and yet I feel like we’re getting stocked up for winter.