This finally pulled Myrta’s thoughts from Melville di Vaun.
“We think he might have drowned.” Janette’s face emptied as she spoke, as though her words made the young man’s absence more real. “We aren’t certain of anything. They might find him any day. Today.”
Georgie added, “And besides not knowing what happened—I mean, of course, he could be fine, like you say, right Janette? It just sounds like one of those old stories about people disappearing in the middle of the night. Can you imagine?”
Myrta had no experience of tragedy, not of any serious sort. The closest thing was the baby goat that escaped the pen years ago. They’d found it days later, dead in the creek, tangled in vines and bloated. She remembered being inconsolable, imagining it dying there, bleating for its mama and no one to help. But this was market, it was supposed to be neighbors and stories, dancing and pretty dresses, not people gone missing and memories of dead goats. “I’m so sorry.” She was. What else could she say?
Janette thanked her and left with Georgie and the youngsters. Jack started talking again about the other growers. He was going on about drought and irrigation and Mr. di Vaun, which set her heart racing again. She couldn’t think straight. Should she tell Celeste about the man’s offer to see a doctor? It didn’t feel right. She wanted to leave the farm, but by Bel above, not by climbing into an aut with a stranger. Of course, matching made no more sense than that. Climbing into a life with a stranger.
And then, as if her thoughts had summoned him, Melville di Vaun appeared at the end of the row and began talking with a seller. She sucked in a breath. The seller pointed at her, and Melville’s eyes, so warm and brown, locked onto her own. She took a step back and nudged Jack. “I don’t know what to think about him.”
Under his breath, Jack said, “Nothing’s going to happen. It’s fine.”
“Don’t go anywhere.”
Melville di Vaun strode up wearing a friendly smile. “Ah. Myrta and Jack. Good afternoon.”
He sounded polite and kind and perfectly concerned, and she swallowed. “Hello.”
Jack stood straighter and pressed forward against the table. “Nice to see you, Mr. di Vaun.”
“Jack. I hope you’re well. Myrta, I wanted to check after you. Be certain you’ve recovered.”
“I’m fine.”
“Good, good. I’ve given it a little more thought.”
His eyes, still locked onto her own, held that same focus as before. As if Jack wasn’t standing right there. “There are two different procedures, either of which might help your situation. Both are very straightforward, quite simple. Quick.”
Her heart was thumping, and she gripped the back table with both hands. Jack sounded perplexed. “Mr. di Vaun, procedures?”
Mr. di Vaun was looking at her, intent on her, and she couldn’t make sense of it. Her thoughts went all jumbled. Her health couldn’t matter to him, not like this. Something was wrong. There he was, composed and confident, in his well-cut suit and cologne mingling with his breath. She was a farmgirl. Why would her health matter to him?
The scars by his ear made white traces, fine lines. She wondered if those scars were due to some accident.
Celeste hurried up, came between the tables, and dropped some packages. “Good afternoon. I’m Celeste, Terrence’s wife.”
Myrta stared at her mama’s terse voice.
“Wonderful to meet you. Melville di Vaun.”
“With Renico?” The edge in Celeste’s voice was the same as it had been in the cheese house when she kept asking if these men had paid Myrta any mind. And even though nothing bad had happened, even the fiber artist was standing now, and his dog too.
Jack said, “Mr. di Vaun’s worried about Myrta collapsing at Reuben’s.”
“That’s kind of you,” Celeste said. “Frankly, more kind than we’d expect.” She put an arm around Myrta.
“Mrs. de Terr, I mean no disrespect. Myrta’s condition is something we see from time to time in the cities, and it’s treatable. It’s called precipitous vertigo. It can become debilitating if untreated, but there’re two medical options to correct it. It seems to me that as long as we’re trying to help your stead, we might help in other ways too. Your entire family could come to Narona, meet the physicians. Afterward, she wouldn’t be bothered by dizzy spells anymore.”
The dog growled. Celeste said, “It strikes me odd that you’re so very interested in a girl you’ve just met.”
Myrta thought maybe it was a city thing, his forward manners, but Celeste was nervous too, and she had lived in Narona. Why did the combustion industry need doctors anyway? Myrta swallowed, focused down at the leg of the table where it sank right into the ground. She was safe. Nothing bad would happen.
Melville laughed. He put his hands in his trouser pockets and rocked back on his heels. “It seems I’ve created another misunderstanding. Cultural differences, I suppose.”
Celeste said forcefully, “Myrta’s fine. I need you to leave. You’re blocking our customers.”
Myrta looked up at that.
His dimples were fading, and he fixed her with another intent gaze. She shrank, everything pounding inside.
It’s how a rabbit feels.
The man nodded and left.
Beads of sweat dotted Celeste’s hairline. “Myrta. Was that the man Terrence told me about? Was he at Reuben’s? Was that him?”
“Yes.” And he was several booths down already, walking quickly and not speaking with anyone. He was supposed to be selling irrigation. Why wasn’t he talking to anyone?
“Why didn’t you tell me he was here? What did he say before I came back?”
Myrta heard the panic in her voice. “I didn’t know he was here until now. He just kept asking after me.”
Celeste took a long look at her. “You’re shaking.” She folded Myrta into a hug. “Stay away from him.”
“We should go home.”
“We can’t. Terrence is working. No, stop worrying. We’re safe. We’re surrounded by friends.” She blinked rapidly and took a deep breath. “Myrta. Another businessman, also with Renico, is here. He’s with Reuben. Stay clear of both of those men.”
Of course she would. Of course.
* * *
Once the selling wound down, Myrta and Jack headed to the open-air theater where folk stories were getting underway.
Myrta pulled Jack to a bench near the back. Jack looked around, probably for some of his friends. He had his own reasons for wanting off the farm, and he’d given her most of his day.
“Thanks, Jack.”
He smiled and shook his head.
On stage, young people lined up. These were the players, leading traditional stories, a way for each generation to teach the next.
Chants broke out, and Myrta joined those nearest her, calling for the tale of Old Steader Elige. The players hushed the crowd and told a different one, the tale of the magical orchard that bore fruit all year. One of the players mimed a steader, eating apple after apple and finally falling down, rolling back and forth with his cheeks puffed out.
The benches continued to fill.
For the second story, the players pointed to a young boy and called him up. Myrta sent up a whoop—it was the tale of Old Steader Elige.
The boy ran to the stage and people called, “Get rid of him, get rid of Elige!”
The players threw their hands in the air and called back, “We’ll try.”
They began the story, with three players standing back in the shadows. The boy, in the role of ‘Old Elige,’ pointed at the stage’s dark pockets and said the couplet, “I see you all from far away, your breath is clear, as clear as day.” Then he pulled them back into view. Myrta booed with the others and called for Old Elige to be sent away from the belt altogether. A player lifted the boy and threw him over her shoulder, carrying him off
to the side, but the boy cried, “You say I bear a wicked mark, but I can see you in the dark!”
Another player led the boy to the back, into the shadows, and declared that Elige would never bother them again. The audience called to send him further yet. “A hundred miles, two hundred,” they shouted.
The boy knew this cue too. “Your chimney smoke is plain to see, you cannot yet be rid of me.” He ran back to center stage.
And then, Myrta’s eyes fell on Melville di Vaun. Still at market, still with his raking gaze, standing past the benches with a younger man and scanning the theater.
She shoved Jack. “Look.” Ducking her head, she pushed out and away, toward the paddock, heart pounding. She crammed between a wagon and the paddock fence. Jack was soon beside her.
“Why is he still here?”
“Myrta, he won’t do anything, not in a crowd like that.”
She threw a glance around the wagon to the market grounds. “All the booths are down. He’s got no reason to be here anymore.”
“Come on, he’s probably just enjoying the show.”
“He wasn’t watching the show. The only reason he’s here is because of me.” Myrta called in to the paddock, “Rusty!” She climbed between the fence rails and a few of the horses ambled over.
“What are you doing? Terrence expects us here. We can’t just ride off.”
“Use your brains, Jack. That man’s like a wolf that’s caught scent.” She grabbed Rusty’s halter, pulled at the gate, and climbed onto the horse’s back. His coat was rough and thick, and he nickered and sidestepped. She pulled on his mane and steered him through the gate.
“Myrta, stop. We need the team fresh.”
In disbelief, she stared at him. “You’re worried about the horses? For the love of all above, are you out of your mind?”
A man yelled. Mr. di Vaun, out of the theater and in clear view, was gesturing his partner to an aut. Myrta kicked Rusty into a trot.
“Holy heavens, Myrta stop!” Jack was getting onto Rennet. The engine on the aut rumbled.
She squeezed harder and kicked again. “Gid up!” The horse broke into a canter, hoof-falls pounding up through her seat. Myrta grabbed handfuls of mane, and the horse snorted and whinnied, ears flicking.
The aut was gaining, and Jack was still yelling at her but she didn’t care. She needed speed, or to get off the road. She kicked and yelled at Rusty to pick it up. He brought his head up, shied to the side, snorted again, hooves striking the dirt. Her view narrowed into a tunnel, and waves of adrenaline surged in her head.
Myrta held the mane tighter, her fingers tangled in it, she kicked harder and harder, yelling at Rusty to go, go, sending the horse into a full gallop. She wobbled to the side. She was falling and Rusty was galloping with his ears flat back. She pulled on his mane to heave back up.
Jack yelled again.
She was upright. She kicked the horse. She kept kicking.
The aut caught up, Rusty shied from it, neighing and snorting. Melville’s partner leaned out of an open window and grabbed at her shoe. He had her ankle. Someone was screaming—it was her. She yanked as hard as she could and pulled her foot free.
Jack navigated Rennet between her and the aut and swung wildly at the man’s arm. Rennet was frothing at the mouth, and his eyes were wide. Jack yelled again and she heard him say, “Get off the road!” The aut swerved and the man in the window nearly fell. He swore into the aut. It edged closer.
Myrta yelled back, “I have to get out of here!”
“Get off the road,” Jack called back.
She wheeled Rusty around, prodding him behind the aut. Jack followed. The aut tried to turn, but the road was narrow and rutted.
As the horses crossed behind, exhaust hit Myrta full on. Pounding vertigo rushed over her, and she screamed, clutching at her forehead with one hand and Rusty’s mane with the other. “Jack, help,” she cried, listing again. The horses plowed up the hill, through scrub and brush.
“Can you relax it?” he yelled.
“No,” she cried. Her head was oddly wrenched, parts within her skull pulling and pushing against each other. Rennet and Rusty slogged up the steep hillside, and the aut tried to hold even below. Something hot crawled under her skin.
Jack took Rennet higher. Rusty followed. On the crest of the hill, the vertigo pummeled away at her. She held on.
And then, a cool pressure washed over her eyes and back through her temples. The vertigo vanished as if it had never been, and a sensation like water flooded her skull. Myrta regained her balance between one breath and the next, she opened her eyes and righted herself. Her white-knuckled fist clenched Rusty’s mane. Her balance was fine, and Rennet plowed on ahead.
Looking back at the road, Myrta saw the aut crawling along and almost fell off the horse again, for she saw more than an aut. A stream of brilliant cobalt blue, like lightning from an angry god, gushed from a pipe on the vehicle. Around the angry streak of blue, pale shades of red and green washed the air. “Jack, what’s happening?” she cried.
“Come on,” he called back. “The roads don’t go this way.”
Chapter Ten
Alphonse, now a blue-green bacterium, flourished in a boundless sea. He pulled carbon dioxide from the water and made sugar. He excreted oxygen—so much that it escaped into the air. The oxygen reacted violently with the methane in the air to create more carbon dioxide, which diffused back into the ocean, giving him even more to eat.
“You’ve generated a feedback, Alphonse.”
He hummed happily. “There are many of me.”
“The oceans are filled with you because of the feedback.”
Time passed and more carbon diffused into the oceans, and the air grew rich with oxygen. After many millennia, Alphonse grew sluggish. “The water is cold.”
Ages passed, and ice crept forth from the north and the south. “There’s too much ice,” Alphonse cried. “The water’s freezing.”
“An atmosphere with no carbon cannot hold heat. You’ve taken the carbon from the air.”
And as the ice advanced, Alphonse slowed and stopped, suspended in a frozen sea. Ice covered the planet. Far away, as in a dream, Stavo said, “The world is entirely covered in snow. The blue-green bacteria did this seven hundred million years ago. The story of our world is one of change.”
* * *
Alphonse wiped the sweat from his eyes and wrestled with the shim again, forcing it into the hinge.
No good. The door still scraped the frame. He swore.
There had to be a better way to pay his medical bill than by doing odd jobs at an inn. A woman’s voice called up the stairwell. “Do you need help?”
“No,” he grunted back, bracing against the frame and trying again.
“Sounds like you need a little help.”
“I’m fine,” he called, wedging the shim a third time.
The woman was Ardelle Vonard. Solid. Serious. This was her inn, and it was homey, in the way an old pair of shoes might be. Slumped and faded but comfortable.
“All right. When you’re done, Ephraim needs you out back.”
“Got it.”
He stood to wrangle the door from a different angle, because by any mathematical analysis the shim should fit fine. Without warning, his thigh seized, and gasping, he grabbed at the jamb. These spasms! Cordelia had said they’d smooth out, but his leg was exactly like that door. All the parts there and still not working.
He kept at the job, and at last, when the door cleared the frame, Alphonse stood with a heavy sigh. He lumbered down the stairs with the tools, toward the back of the inn, down a little corridor, and out to the yard. Ardelle’s husband Ephraim would be here, doing some odd task or other for her.
A stable stood to one side of the yard, and about thirty plum trees grew past it. Beyond the trees, a trail led into the mou
ntains, marked by an old copperwood stump. Everything about Collimais was beautiful, and it was nothing like Sangal.
Ephraim was on his back underneath a carriage. He pulled out as Alphonse hobbled over.
“Al. I can use a second pair of hands.”
The man spoke with a city accent, his words taking no space at all, like Alphonse’s own clipped speech. Some people said it matched the pace of the cities. Alphonse wouldn’t have noticed the man’s accent back in Sangal, but here in this little foothill town it was as unexpected as the occasional sound of an aut backfiring. Ephraim seemed kindly, though. “Leg holding up?”
“It’s fine, sir.” Alphonse pushed against the ache in his thigh.
Ephraim watched in a detached, almost clinical way, and Alphonse wondered if he’d been a medic once.
“Newly regenerated tissues take a while. Yours is probably in the cellular proliferation stage. Don’t worry, it’ll get there.” Ephraim took the hand tools from Alphonse and set them with a few others, then gestured at the carriage. “Any experience with these?”
“No, not at all. We use auts, of course.” There were hardly any horse-drawn carriages in the cities any more.
“Of course.” Ephraim seemed to study Alphonse more closely. “Have you worked on those?”
“Sure, but they’re not . . .” Alphonse gestured at the old carriage, with its wooden wheels, its seat sunk in the middle, and the whole of it faded from exposure. “You know.”
Ephraim handed a jack over. “They’re close enough. Front axle’s bad.” He set a second jack under his side of the carriage.
They began working. Ephraim called across, “So tell me, Al, what’s your family’s business?”
When Alphonse had started at the inn, he’d assumed the Vonards would be a simple family. Provincial, with a back-woods type of sensibility.
They’d been anything but simple. They’d piled questions on him, especially their daughter, who seemed fascinated by him in an almost adversarial way. Ephraim, at least, kept a friendly tone.
“My mother’s a teacher.” It was true enough. She’d taught him pragmatic cynicism after her father’s death. She’d taught him plenty over the years, most often about people and their pressure points.
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