After another long moment, her papa finally spoke. “Myrta. This is a working trip.”
A flutter rippled through her. “I know, Papa. I mean, I know, Terrence.”
His face was like a crust of soil, and his eyes were green, same as her own, but on him they looked like bean sprouts. They looked like springtime. “How’ll the goats get by, daughter? Milk dries up quick.”
Her heart beat faster. It wouldn’t be market, not nearly, but it would be somewhere else. Her words spilled out. “I’ll leave the kids with the nannies. We’ll lose one day, that’s all.”
After another long pause, he smiled and nodded.
Jack grinned, pushed back from the table and joined her at the sink. He gave her a squeeze around the shoulders and murmured, “Away from farming.”
She smiled, straight out the window. “Off the stead.”
* * *
2 Celeste’s university years are described in the novella Sisters, at pltavormina.com.
Chapter Four
Alphonse stood next to his grandfather on a windy cliff overlooking a surging and violent landscape.
“Our history, Alphonse. Back to the very beginning, recorded in rock and code.”
“I won’t remember this, Grandfather.”
“Don’t worry. The day will come when you hold all of history in a thought. Mark my words.”
The molten sea below him churned. Alphonse grew warm. Then hot—unbearably so.
“We stretch back to the beginning of time, atoms cycling into structure. Then formlessness, then structure again. Complexity and dissolution, Alphonse, pulsing and breathing like the landscape below.”
Fireballs crashed from above. Radiation seared the planet’s surface.
Alphonse gasped and fell to his knees. His shins burned and dissolved. His legs, his torso, his entire self. He melted into the Hadean Sea.
“The story is a gift from the founders.”
“I don’t want it,” Alphonse tried to scream, but not a sound escaped as he melted into nothingness.
* * *
He woke in stages. The air here was good, so unlike his neighborhood in Sangal with its ever-present smell of fishing canneries.
The worst city funk was in the northwest octant, where his friend Eduardo lived. Eduardo managed an extraction rig for Delsico, part of the combustion industry, and said often enough that his rig workers tolerated the stench because of the pay.
But here, the suns were rising and the air was crisp, laced with cedar and pine. Invigorated, Alphonse struck camp.
He started along a ridgeline footpath, rutted and crowded with overgrowth. Barely a path at all. His pack caught on bramblethorn, and he grew irritated as the morning passed.
At mid-day, still on the ridge, he stopped to eat. Water turned the powdered rations into a pasty meal, a stiff batter with grains and nuts. Edible. Definitely welcome.
But the water skin was lighter than it should be, and a thread of unease worked into his thoughts. Resolving to make better time, he got underway.
The path grew more crowded as the afternoon passed.
Evening rations took most of the remaining water, which really should have lasted longer. He patted around his pack, and after a moment, found a wet patch. “Fierno,” he swore, then ran his fingers on the water skin’s seam and up to the neck. There it was, the dent that kept the lid from sitting tight. Groaning, he slapped the skin onto the pack.
The next morning, Alphonse woke to a throbbing headache. He took the last swallow of water and started onward, hacking his machete through the scrub.
The suns blazed, but he didn’t sweat. He pushed through more brush when, without warning, the ground lurched, or maybe he did. He was down, his forearm and left cheek stinging from a patch of spinebark. He stood, but everything twisted again.
* * *
Alphonse came to awareness in the dark with a tongue like cotton and his head splintering. Every part of him throbbed.
He bushwhacked off trail, straight down toward the river. Twice he fell. Dirt and burrs worked into his boots and trousers, and he was in another patch of spinebark and numbing from the needles, but he pushed up and stumbled on. Every whack of the machete matched by a dull thud at the base of his skull.
At last, as the stars faded into dawn, he saw it—the massive Turas. It barreled down the canyon, white and frothy, churning and rushing. With a croaking cry he slipped and scrambled the last two hundred feet, dropped his pack, fell to the bank, and scooped up a handful of frigid water. Ice shot into his blisters and down his throat. He took more, and more, two hands splashing onto his face, hair, neck. His fingers numbed from the cold, his mouth too, but he scooped as much sweet, beautiful water as he could manage, and at last, sobbing, he pushed out of the spray and collapsed against a boulder. He’d made it.
Alphonse faded in and out of consciousness as the river crashed by, until near mid-day, the pulsing stab of his headache began to ease.
The sky was brilliant. Around him lay blanketed slopes of unspoiled, wild, stunning beauty.
Alphonse worked his way southward along the river, forcing his way through tangles of saplings and undergrowth. Eventually the river widened and slowed, and as the heat was peaking for the day, he came to a spillway bordered by a steep cut.
“A bath.” Mirth bubbled up as he said it.
Bathing. Being clean. Alphonse laughed outright and dropped his pack.
He stripped naked, plunging his clothing in piece by piece to work out the dirt and muck. His spirits rose, and before long, he launched into an old sailor song. He threw himself into it, his voice filling the air with tales of sea-maidens and nanquits.
Alphonse washed himself next, gasping at the ice-cold water. He splashed his torso, waded deeper and howled, and finally dunked his whole body to scrub every sore and scabbed piece of himself.
Shivering, he clambered back out and sluiced off.
That evening, warm and dressed again, he settled in. Outside the tent, breezes murmured through the trees like voices, promises. He drifted, at peace.
Hours later, pelting thuds and a dull, ominous roar woke him. “No. No, no, no!” Alphonse shoved his boots on and bundled the blanket. The roar grew louder. He crawled out of the tent where his pack sat, soaked.
Sheets of rain chilled him with spikes of fury. He grabbed and collapsed the tent and stuffed it into the pack and scrabbled toward the bank cut. The roar grew louder. He climbed up the cut and threw his arm around a willow.
The floodwaters crashed and knocked him back into the surging crest. He went under, took a lungful of water, and fought his way up. By some grace his hand connected with a root, and he held.
Stay firm. It felt like a memory of his grandfather. “I am!” Throwing his other hand forward he missed the root, threw again and got it.
Rain yowled and the water surged in angry peaks. The clouds were gray, heavy, sodden wool, barely lightening in the dawn. His muscles straining, both arms burning, he fought to get his footing underneath him, where the mud kept washing away. Another crest raced at him, hurled debris against him, and a rage welled up in him.
There it was, the next trough, and yelling, he was in it, pulling and grabbing hand over hand up the root. Another crest was hurtling toward him.
Alphonse slammed the toe of his boot into the bank. He slammed the other toe in, higher, and threw his right hand around the willow trunk again. When the water crashed against him, buoyancy aided him up, and he threw his left arm around the trunk, his wrist scraping. “Ow!”
The surge passed, and he was in another trough but higher than before. With another mighty roar he pulled up and lunged his torso onto the top of the bank. If he could get one leg up, he’d be out.
He threw his knee over.
Alphonse scrabbled up and away. He fell to his side coughing, slipped o
ut of the pack and spluttered for air. Above him, the sky was turning to glaucous ash, and a seed of euphoria sprouted within. He was safe. He pushed to stand and whooped. Logs whipped by in the current below, and Alphonse yelled, “Take that,” at the river. Then to the sky, “Yes, I win!” He threw his arms out, the rain softening in the morning light, a thousand cool slaps of acceptance. Every piece of himself cried out, straight to the mountains. He fell to the ground laughing and crying as the current hurtled by.
Chapter Five
Their carriage rattled along toward Reuben de Reu’s logging stead. In the back, Myrta grinned so hard she thought her face might crack in two, and Jack kept chuckling at her good spirits. In the front, Terrence and Nate argued about how much rye to distill into whiskey.
They arrived mid-morning. Reuben’s house was larger than theirs and had a stone foundation. Two automobiles sat next to it, like metal boxes on wheels. Her papa looked at the auts as he reined the horses in. “Those Renico folk sure do love their mechanation. Needin’ two auts to get here.” He shook his head and helped Myrta down. “Unhitch the horses, put ’em to pasture, daughter. And keep them babies away.” Then he left with her brothers.
Myrta walked up to the auts. These city people, they’d be somewhere else tonight. They weren’t left on a farm for months on end. She rested a hand on the closer one. It had a front seat, no rear seat at all, and a funny smell came off it, a smell she couldn’t place, but it wasn’t a farm smell.
There were rolled up papers inside, they looked like charts, and a tool case of some sort. The whole thing seemed cramped and uncomfortable, nothing like the carriage, but still, these people could speed back and forth from one place to another whenever they liked.
The nearer horse, Rennet, pawed at the ground. He was chewing on his bit, working his jaw around it. She went over to pat his neck and the soft skin under his throat. “Those auts sure aren’t very personal, are they?”
He tossed his head.
Rusty, the other horse, stood solid. He never complained, never fidgeted like Rennet did. She went to him and scratched behind his ears. He was sweatier than Rennet too, probably pulled more of the weight this morning. “You’re happy in the belt. It suits you.”
Maybe it was wrong to want to be somewhere new. Everyone she knew, just about everyone, lived in the belt. They enjoyed it, steading. Her mama always said the cities moved too fast. Even her uncle in the foothills, who’d grown up in a city, said life was better when things went slower.
Still, steads, they were all the same. A piece of despair shuffled around in her heart.
She pulled the horses to the pasture, took the cheese basket from the carriage, and walked up to the home. Georgie de Reu, a few years older than Myrta and with a mop-top of hair, opened the door. A small boy hid behind Georgie’s legs, and a pudgy-cheeked baby girl, a year or so old, sat on her hip.
“Myrta! So nice you could come today. Come in. Come, come in. No, no, don’t worry about your shoes, dear. Leave them on. We have so much traffic in and out today I’ll need to wash the floors either way. Come in.”
With her free hand, Georgie took the basket and led the way to the kitchen, where windows looked onto a small field and vegetable patch. Georgie set the basket down. “Oh, these cheeses look delicious. We’ll put them out later. Would you like a cup of camsin? I can pour two as easily as one. We don’t have honey. Have a seat dear, just clear a spot.”
“Yes, please.”
Georgie set her daughter down, and the baby girl began pulling drawers open. The little boy had found a crust of bread somewhere and peered at Myrta from behind his mother.
Georgie wiped a bit of jam from his face. “They’re dears but a handful. Reuben wants a third. Of course, that would be lovely, especially another little girl, but he’d like a second son of course, and—oh!”
The kettle had simmered over, water hissing on the stove. Georgie took it and began steeping the camsin leaves. “Can I get you something to eat? Eggs? There’s bread on the table. Little Rudy likes bread. Rudy, be a good boy and sit at the table when you eat.”
He ran out of the kitchen.
Georgie sat and handed over a steaming cup. “How are you, dear?”
It was just all so very much. Myrta took a sip to focus her thoughts away from the chaos in the kitchen, everything about it so completely unlike the disciplined de Terr kitchen. “Fine . . . thank you.”
“How long has it been? Was it when baby Rosa was weaning? That must be right. I remember we couldn’t carry on a conversation because she fussed the whole time, she wanted to nurse, and of course I hated saying no, and my breasts felt like they would burst from the milk, but Reuben wants another baby so it had to dry up. Oh. I forgot the milk.”
“Last summer. At market.”
“That’s right. Market. What good cheese you had. Are these the same? I’m so glad you’re selling. You’re selling this year, yes? The same ones? They look delicious. We’ll have some when everyone comes down for lunch.”
The baby girl wandered off to the front room where her brother was playing.
Georgie continued, “You’re in charge of the animals, aren’t you? That must be so lovely, working with the animals. It would be so nice, being with the baby goats all day, and of course goat milk is delicious. I hope you don’t get too attached. Is that hard? When it’s time to slaughter one of the animals? But what am I saying? Forget I asked. I’m just glad trees don’t scream.”
Myrta was unsure how to respond, or which question might be most important, or if any of them mattered at all. Georgie seemed happy to simply have another person around and would probably carry on talking no matter what Myrta said. “I tend the animals and help Celeste inside.”
The baby girl cried from the front room, and Georgie’s attention went to the door. “Oh, that boy. He loves to knock over her blocks. Please excuse me.” She hurried out.
Myrta took another look around the room. Her chair was sticky, and some of whatever it was had gotten onto her skirt. Stacks of dishes lined the counter. Somewhere nearby, dirty cloth diapers needed attention, and the baby’s inconsolable cries blasted into the kitchen. The boy ran in and through, to a back room. He slammed the door.
“Where were we?” Georgie said, returning with Rosa on her hip. The baby girl’s eyes were puffy, and she held a block next to her chest.
Goodness. The thought of being matched and having babies? No. “We were talking about cheese.”
Behind the closed door, the little boy was pounding something hard against the floor, over and over again. Myrta didn’t know if she should go comfort him, grab a tissue for the baby, clean the kitchen, straighten the front room, or drink the camsin. “Can I help with anything?”
“Oh, no. No. Don’t worry about the mess. The children are just so happy to have company today. Would you like to hold Rosa while I clean up?” And a squirmy moist package of babyhood was plopped into Myrta’s lap.
She hadn’t held a baby before. The little girl seemed to have more limbs than was right, and her diaper possibly needed changing. Yes, it did. Mucus oozed from Rosa’s nose, drying into a crust on her lip. She threw her block to the floor and began wailing.
Myrta leaned over to grab it. “That’s okay, we’ll just pick it up.” The baby howled.
Georgie called from the sink, “You’re doing great,” but did not even look over. “So nice to have help with Rosa. Isn’t she dear?”
The babies at market were never this loud. Myrta found herself handling the girl as she might one of the animals, making shushing noises and stroking her head.
Georgie came back to sit, dishes in the sink and counters wiped. “What she’d really like is to be outside. Why don’t we take her outside? Little Rudy needs to sulk, and a quiet house will be just the thing.”
But the men were outside, and Myrta’s job was to keep the children away. “May
be the woods?”
“Oh, the woods are a bad idea. Baby Rosa will run off and be out of sight before you know it. They’re always running into the woods and coming back with scrapes and bugs. I don’t want little Rudy to feel left behind either, when he decides to come out. Let’s see what the men are up to, and Rudy can find us if he wants.”
Surely the two of them could watch one little girl, even in the woods. “I could hold Rosa. In the woods. And then we won’t bother anybody.”
“What, a little visit from us? Reuben won’t mind.”
“I think Terrence and Nathan want to focus on the irrigation.” She was supposed to keep the babies away.
“Oh, we won’t talk to them. Not a peep. We’ll just watch.”
Myrta said with more force, “We could play with Rosa in the front room—”
“I mean, so many visitors today! The big business people with their fancy auts, and your family as well. It’s very exciting, and it’s good for Rosa and Rudy.”
Georgie had decided, and it wasn’t as though Myrta could lock her up and keep her away from her own husband.
They walked up to the fields, the ground sighing underfoot with each step, releasing the scent of good soil. Reuben’s land adjoined another steader’s, and a small irrigation system stood on the fence line between their properties.
Terrence’s gaze fell on them. He glared at Myrta, and she tipped her head at Georgie and gave a little shrug.
He and Jack stood next to a large tank with Reuben de Reu—a thin man with straw-straight hair sticking out from under a hat. Gesturing at a metallic box next to the tank, Reuben spoke with a serious-looking older woman.
A second businessperson, a man, leaned hip-level against the box. He had thick dark hair shot through with gray. One of his ears tilted oddly and had a narrow map of scars around it. He flicked something to the ground, twisted it with his foot, and flashed a grin straight at Myrta. His eyes were deep brown, his teeth straight and even, and two dimples came out when he smiled. With a flush of warmth, she looked down.
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