by Paul Durham
They arrived at the far end of the village, where it seemed the entire town had gathered at the edge of the harbor. The Belongers cupped their hands and cheered loudly. Billowing, multicolored flags and banners waved over their heads. Savory smoke from large cook fires filled the air and made Rye’s stomach grumble. From the back of the crowd, she stood on her toes to get a better view.
“Up here,” Hendry said. He had climbed atop a farmer’s cart. Rye, Folly, and Quinn joined him.
From their perch, Rye could now see three separate segments of massive stone seawall. Two lengths extended inward from either end of the harbor’s crescent tips, while a third stretched from the center. Spanning the distance between them was a long, triple-ended rope thick enough to tether the largest of ships. The rope ran through an iron-and-stone pulley system housed on a solitary rock that formed a tiny, uninhabited island in the center of the harbor. Some sort of weathered wooden circlet was strung at the top of the pulleys, rotating clockwise and back as their wheels creaked. Each of the rope’s three ends was held by a team of a dozen burly men—and more than a few stout women—on each seawall. Held was probably not the most accurate word, as they all gripped the rope for dear life while pulling their end toward the shore. All of the pullers wore tartan kilts.
It was a giant tug-of-war, like the ones children sometimes had in Drowning, except this one included three teams made up entirely of adults. Nobody seemed to be at play.
“This is the Pull,” Hendry explained. “It’s held every spring here at the harbor, and everyone on High Isle attends. Surely you’ve heard of it where you come from?”
Rye gave Folly and Quinn a quick glance. They shrugged.
“Even some folks from the Lower Isles sail in,” Hendry went on. “You can always spot the Low Islanders right off. They’re usually a bit wild-looking.”
He nodded to a large family with numerous children, all of them with long, matted hair and nervous eyes that twitched like foxes’.
“Probably haven’t left the Lower Isles since last year,” Hendry whispered.
All of the Belongers struck Rye as a little rough around the edges. They were generally large people, robust through the shoulders and hips but not soft, with weathered faces and eyes that brimmed with life. Many had painted their faces in colors that matched the kilts of the men and women on the seawalls. She saw quite a bit of red hair, which was uncommon back in Drowning. She finally understood where Lottie’s raggedy mop came from.
“Is it some sort of competition?” Quinn asked.
“It’s the competition,” Hendry clarified. “To determine which of the three clans will govern Pest for the next year. The Tarvishes, Dunners, or Gillys, although the families are all jumbled now anyway so the names really aren’t important. What matters is whether it’s the Crofters, Fiddlers, or Fishers.”
Folly squinted toward the three teams on the rock walls. “How do we tell them apart?”
“Well, Miss Uninvited,” Hendry said, in a way that was more of a gentle tease than a mean-spirited slur, “if you lived here you’d know. But since y’er new, the Tarvishes are the Crofters. That’s them in the green-and-white tartan. Most live in the hills, tending sheep and farming the crofts. The Gillys represent the Fishers. They’re in gray-blue tartan and, as you might expect, are fisher folk.”
Rye watched as the teams of Fishers and Crofters strained at the rope.
“The Dunners—they’re the Fiddlers, and you’ll spot them soon enough. They’re always the first ones pulled into the drink.”
“They’re musicians?” Quinn asked.
“No, no,” Hendry chuckled. He waggled his fingers. “They tinker and fiddle with things. Great with their brains and thumbs, the Fiddlers—they devise ingenious crab traps and keep the waterwheel churning. But their brawn . . . not as much.”
There was a scream and a splash and most of the crowd erupted in cheers. Hendry threw up his arms, cupped his hands to his mouth and whooped and hollered. The first few members of the team in rust-colored tartan had tumbled off the rocks and into the water. Several dinghies rowed quickly from the docks to collect them before they drowned. A third of the crowd groaned and cursed, shaking their heads in resignation.
“Told you,” Hendry said with a smile. “The Fiddlers keep claiming the pulley system is rigged. We just ignore them—after all, they’re the ones who built it!” Hendry let out a hearty laugh. “The Fishers and Crofters on the other hand, they’re a bit more evenly matched.”
“Which team is yours?” Folly asked.
“Hendry Tarvish, First Apprentice Sheepherder,” he said with a little bow. “And eighth-generation Crofter.”
On the seawalls, the Crofters and Fishers took little time to relish in their first victory. The teams quickly turned their attention to each other. The prize at the center of the rope wobbled but did not rotate far either way.
“What’s that in the middle?” Quinn asked.
“The Driftwood Crown,” Hendry explained. “It’s just an ornament. No one actually wears it—that would just be foolish.”
It all struck Rye as a bit foolish.
“The Fishers have won the past two Pulls,” Hendry said. “But I think this may be our year.”
“How long will they go at it?” Quinn asked.
“As long as it takes,” Hendry said. “Last year it lasted nearly a week.”
“A week!” Quinn exclaimed.
“You can swap pullers out for a rest, as long as there are never more than twelve mates touching the rope at any one time. Substitutions are tricky.”
“Will you be one of the substitutes?” Folly asked.
“No, still too scrawny,” he said with a smile. Hendry flexed a bicep that produced an impressive bulge for a boy his age. Folly blushed. Quinn glanced down at his own arm and frowned. “Maybe someday,” Hendry added.
Rye continued to study the teams battling each other on the seawalls.
“Isn’t there a better way to decide who’s in charge?” she asked.
“Of course,” he said. “It should be the Crofters every year. But ask three Belongers and you’ll get three different answers.”
“Still, it doesn’t seem like the best way,” she replied.
“No?” Hendry asked. “It’s certainly better than the old way. That involved much blood and broken bones.”
Rye turned to him. “How long has Pest chosen its leaders like this?”
“Most of my life,” he said, then hesitated. “Although there was a time when the clans weren’t so quarrelsome.”
Rye raised an eyebrow.
“There was once one leader who everyone agreed on,” Hendry said. “But he abandoned us long ago. It’s been like this ever since.”
“Can’t he be replaced?” Rye asked.
Hendry gave her a tight smile.
“Maybe,” he said. “But as far as I know, there’s only one Waldron Cutty.”
17
Belongers
Hendry took Rye, Folly, and Quinn on a tour of the vendors’ tents and stalls. Drowning’s silver shims and bronze bits were of no value on Pest, but after Hendry introduced Rye as a Belonger the peddlers were willing to let them sample the local fare. The face painters even added a touch of decorative color to their cheeks. Quinn filled up on something called offal pie, and when he asked Hendry what was in it, Hendry just slapped him on the back and said, “You’ve got so many goat bits in your belly you’ll probably be bleating in your sleep.”
They all made their way back up the crushed-shell path as the sun hung low in the sky. Other groups of children followed the occasional adult out of the village, but most of the Belongers still crowded the harbor where the Crofters and Fishers continued to labor at the ropes. Hendry explained that many of the Isle’s daily chores would be left to the children until the Pull was complete.
Rye heard the crush of shells behind them as two other children hurried to catch up. The boy was about Hendry’s age but short and squat. His hair was
shaved down to his scalp over each ear and around the back of his head, with a thick thatch of auburn hair sticking up on the crown like a plume. The girl was younger, perhaps seven or eight, and thin as a spring wildflower. She had perfectly round, green-flecked eyes that seemed to reflect the dull innocence of a halibut, and wore a crooked smile that reminded Rye of the bent cupboard back at the farmhouse. And yet her most striking feature was her hair. Her brown locks fell as straight and fine as thread past the hem of her frock, just short of the heels of her bare feet. Rye had never met anyone with hair so long.
“Is this them?” the boy asked, his cheeks ruddy with excitement.
Hendry nodded. “Rye, Folly, and Quinn, this is my second cousin twice removed, Rooster Dunner.”
Rooster gave them a cheerful wave.
“Do they call you Rooster because of your hair?” Folly asked with a smile.
Rooster’s cheeks flushed even more. “Um, no,” he stammered, and he tried to flatten his auburn tuft over the bare skin of his scalp. “It’s because I wake up so early.”
“Oh,” Folly said as Rye flashed her a reproachful look. “That makes more sense,” she added quickly.
“And this is our friend, Padgett Gilly,” Hendry continued. “We call her Padge.”
Padge kept smiling without blinking.
“Is it true?” Rooster asked, looking toward Rye as he grappled with his uncooperative cowlicks. “Are you really a Cutty?”
Rye had to think before answering but said, “Well, yes. I suppose I am.”
“Have you met him?” Rooster asked.
“Who?”
“Waldron, of course,” Rooster clarified.
“Yes. Well, barely. Folly and Quinn have too.”
“Told you,” Hendry said.
The three Belonger children exchanged wide-eyed glances, although Rye was beginning to get the sense that Padge’s eyes always looked that way.
“Your grandmother’s mother was my grandmother’s aunt,” the younger girl chimed in unexpectedly.
Rye returned a blank look.
“My great-grandmother was your mother’s great aunt,” Padge clarified, in a way that was entirely unhelpful.
“Oh,” Rye said, “That makes us . . .” She wasn’t exactly sure.
“Related, silly,” Padge said with a roll of her eyes, as if the answer should be obvious to anyone.
Quinn furrowed his brow. “I think she means your great-grandmothers were sisters.”
“Exactly,” Padge said, and blinked her eyes for the first time, batting them at Quinn. “You must be the smartie of the bunch.”
“Padge comes from a family of whalers,” Hendry explained. “Her father was a legendary seaman, but he was swallowed by a humpback when she was just a baby. We keep an eye out for her now.” Hendry flashed her a warm, brotherly smile, then leaned in and whispered to Rye. “He actually tangled his foot in a net and fell off the dock, but we tell her the whale story to make her feel better.”
Hendry leaned back out. “Padge also happens to have an uncanny ability to guess things before they happen.”
“It’s true,” Rooster confirmed.
“We keep that to ourselves, though,” Hendry added warily. “We wouldn’t want the adults to get the wrong idea and ship her off to the Lower Isles.”
“Why would they ship her off?” Rye began to ask, but Rooster had already jumped in.
“Who’s going to win the Pull this year, Padge?” he asked.
“I already told you. Nobody.”
“Come on,” Rooster coaxed.
“You don’t have to believe me, Rooster. But you can be sure who’s not going to win—the Fiddlers.” She stuck her tongue out at him.
Rooster scowled. Folly giggled. Hendry suggested that they all move along, offering to see Rye, Folly, and Quinn back to Waldron’s farm before dark.
Rye started after Hendry but stopped when she felt a small tug on her sleeve.
“My father wasn’t swallowed by any whale,” Padge whispered, and winked a big round eye. “I just pretend to believe that to make Hendry and Rooster feel better.”
The children made their way along the footpath. Quinn chatted with Hendry while Rooster eagerly quizzed Folly about what is was like to live in a tavern. Padge followed closely at Rye’s heels, so close she accidentally stepped on Rye’s boot and sent her reeling. The little girl didn’t say much but just kept smiling her crooked grin.
Rye saw Quinn pause as they reached the small stone bridge.
“What’s that?” he said, pointing to something nestled underneath. It looked like a leather pouch. “Someone’s dropped their coin purse.” Quinn started down the embankment.
“Don’t touch it!” Hendry cried. “We leave coins under bridges for the Shellycoats—to keep them happy and out of mischief,” he explained. “Disturbing their coins . . . that could be trouble.”
“What’s a Shellycoat?” Folly asked.
“Like a wirry,” Rye said.
Padge leaned in close to Rye. “Silly boys,” she whispered. “The Shellycoats don’t want coins.”
“No?” Rye asked.
Padge shook her head adamantly.
“What then?” Rye asked.
“Blood,” Padge mouthed.
Rye pinched her face tight at the thought. Padge just looked at her without blinking, then her shoulders began to shudder and a little wheezing sound came from her throat, like Shady coughing up a hairball. It took Rye a moment to realize it was laughter.
“I’m just tickling you,” Padge said, and jabbed a small, bony elbow into Rye’s ribs.
Hendry glanced at the sky. “Smells like we’ve got weather coming in. We should all get home ahead of it.” He turned and pointed up the path that Rye, Folly, and Quinn had descended earlier. “Keep to the footpath and you’ll be fine. Don’t stray north of your grandfather’s farm, though. Beyond that is the old Varlet homestead—and you don’t want any business there.”
“What’s wrong with the Varlet homestead?” Folly asked.
“It’s haunted,” Rooster jumped in. “And cursed on top of that.”
Rye, Folly, and Quinn had heard their share of ghost stories around Drowning. Rye had come to discover that the stories were mostly bogwash. She heard Hendry call out as the new friends parted company at the edge of Waldron’s farm.
“Meet us in Wick tomorrow! Don’t stray from the farm after dark—you don’t want the Shellycoats to get you!”
Rye smelled the familiar scent of her mother’s cooking wafting from the farmhouse. Overhead, the glowing clouds that had reflected a golden sunset over the hills now turned to dark bruises. The children hurried through the field, ducking under an enormous pair of billowing men’s trousers Abby had hung on a line to dry.
Behind them, the seas churned the color of metal. On the horizon, a large ship bobbed on restless waves. Then the Salt materialized like a massive ghost from the depths of the ocean, obscuring it behind its murky wall.
Abby had done her best to arrange a proper setting around the farm table for supper. She’d cut wildflowers and placed them in an empty bottle as a centerpiece, and everyone blinked at one another from their seats without saying anything at all. Rye and her friends sat up straight and smiled politely in their chairs for the benefit of Waldron and Knockmany.
Their good manners lasted all of a minute, the children resuming their usual suppertime antics by the time Abby had filled their goblets. Rye was starving and the floor around her was soon covered with crumbs and soup stains. Folly and Quinn loudly debated the veracity of one of Folly’s stories. Lottie, whose own story was getting lost in the argument, banged her spoon on her plate.
Abby was well accustomed to such commotion, if not altogether enamored with it. But Waldron and Knockmany seemed as baffled as if a flock of geese had joined them at the table. Waldron slurped at his stew, his large frame spilling out of his chair. He didn’t have much to say, although the wildflowers made him sneeze now and again. Knockmany sat
next to Lottie and flinched at some of the louder shrieks and more boisterous laughter. He hunkered down behind his bowl and mug.
“So how was Wick?” Abby asked matter-of-factly, cocking a knowing eye at the children. They fell silent.
Rye exchanged glances with Quinn. His face was still smudged with the festive green and white paint of the Tarvish clan. She looked to Folly. A craftswoman had plaited strands of Folly’s white-blond hair into a traditional Pest braid. It didn’t take a sage to figure out where they’d been.
“We tried to stay out,” Rye explained, “like you asked. It just didn’t work.”
“My father says a strong effort is sometimes worth more than a good result,” Quinn added helpfully.
Abby just shook her head.
“So who do you think will win the Pull?” Folly asked Rye and Quinn.
Waldron’s eyes narrowed from across the table.
“The Pull?” Abby asked.
Folly jumped in before Rye thought to stop her, telling Abby everything they’d seen and learned from Hendry. Abby’s face frowned as Folly rambled, although Rye sensed that her mother’s annoyance was not with her friend but at the state of affairs in Wick. Rye watched Waldron’s reaction even more carefully. He didn’t speak, but his eyes darkened with every word. It was the same sort of quiet anger she’d seen in her mother more than once.
Rye nudged Folly under the table in hopes it might quiet her, but Folly didn’t take her cue. Rye felt the pit in her stomach move to her throat. Surely Folly knew better than to mention Hendry’s words about the leader who’d abandoned them.
“They said it wasn’t always this way,” Folly continued between bites. “Once, there—”
Rye forced out an enormous belch—one loud enough to abruptly halt Folly’s chatter. Abby gave her a reproachful look and Rye’s eyes darted to Waldron. His forehead had gone scarlet. The muscles in his neck tightened as if he were trying to contain himself.
Uh-oh, Rye thought. Apparently that wasn’t the custom on Pest either.
“Thank you for the dinner?” she said meekly.
Waldron’s chin wrinkled, his brow furrowed, and he could control himself no longer. A sound escaped his throat. To Rye’s surprise, it was a deep chuckle.