Nameless

by Sam Starbuck

  "Gwen says we're not supposed to call them gypsies."

  "Gwen's very right, and I apologize in absentia."

  "What's that?"

  "Latin."

  He scowled at me and ran on ahead, plowing through the snow. In the distance the Friendly's camp was already visible, a low and uneven black skyline of trucks and campers and shoveled snow. Smoke rose from a handful of cook-fires.

  By the time we actually arrived, the boy was coated in snow from the waist down and happily windblown, eager to see everything and everyone. It was hard to deny that the Friendly camp was an adventure for a village boy, full of dark places to explore and unusual things to see.

  "Hello, Saint Christopher!" called a voice, and I turned from the boy, in conference with a handful of Friendly children, to find Tommy's brother Pete bearing down on me.

  "Good morning, Pete," I said, offering my hand. He shook it and then clapped a book into it triumphantly.

  "I have books to trade to you," he said, pointing at it. I opened the book – the pages were blank, but the binding was exquisite – soft suede leather, the pages tightly stitched.

  "Where did this come from?" I asked. "Your work?"

  "Good god no. My son. Keen craftsman, very good fingers. There are twenty in all, more can be made."

  "I don't think I could sell more, but I'll buy your lot of twenty. How much are you asking?"

  We haggled, of course. With the Friendly one must. On the other hand, as disgusted as I pretended to act over the final price, it wasn't a bad deal. It would take a while – maybe a year or two – to shift twenty leather-bound journals, but Christmas was coming, after all. And I like to do business with the Friendly, especially with Gwen and her family.

  "Come have some hospitality," Pete said, gesturing me over to one of the cook-fires. There were beans bubbling in the embers, all-day cooking, and a pot situated over the flame that was just beginning to boil. He dished out two mugs of mildly-alcoholic something-or-other and passed me one.

  "Glad to see you in good health," I said, as we stood in the cold and sipped, watching the daily activity of the camp go on around us.

  "It's been decent this year. Tight, but not so bad as some."

  "So Gwen said," I replied, looking around at the people building low walls from the snow, stirring pots over other fires, taking advantage of the spaciousness of the field to do a little cleaning in their campers.

  "You seem well too, though Gwen tells me you've been sick," Pete said. I shook my head.

  "I do just fine, Pete."

  "Gwen tells me also that you're the guardian of the man up the hill," he added, nodding towards the cottage. "Saw him last night, watching us."

  "Did you? I wouldn't credit Lucas with spying from behind the curtains."

  "No, nor he did," Pete agreed. "Slunk out late at night and did a little circle – reminded me of an animal looking for handouts but not willing to come close-to. Gwen gave him a chance to make himself known, didn't take it."

  "No, he wouldn't."

  "Does he need your defending?" Pete asked. "You should know by now that Gwen's a kind woman. Grown woman too," he added, with a sidelong grin.

  "Yes, I know."

  "It's a shame you're a land-owner. She thinks very highly of you."

  I laughed. "Was that a proposition of marriage from a near male relative?"

  "You could do worse. Are you really happy here? The same faces, the same trees, the same buildings year after year?"

  "One doesn't think about it much, as a land-owner," I said. "Though everyone else apparently thinks of it for me."

  "Saint Christopher!" another voice called, and Gwen came running across the camp, hauling the boy after her. "Good morning!"

  "Yes, it is," I answered, allowing her to tackle me in a hug and give me a kiss on the cheek. "And how are you?"

  "Very good. Looking forward to meeting your mysterious Lucas."

  "Ah, that was a hint," I said, amused. "I'm ready to run up to the cottage when you are."

  "Just have to summon father. FATHER!" she called, and Tommy put his head out of one of the campers.

  "Just coming now," he said, climbing down into the snow. "Good morning, Saint."

  "Morning, Tommy. Pete, you coming along?" I asked.

  "Fraid not – some chores to mind," Pete said. "Run along with you."

  "Running along," I said. Gwen took my hand in hers, Tommy eyeing us suspiciously as we made our way towards the cottage on the hill.

  "You have to be nice to Lucas," the boy said.

  "I am nice to everyone," Gwen replied loftily.

  "But really nice. He's shy."

  "I'd never have guessed," Tommy said drily.

  "He knows a lot. Like everything about history," the boy continued.

  Gwen looked amused. "Whose history?"

  The boy opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again with a snap, surprised. I shot Gwen a smile, leaned forward, and knocked on the kitchen door.

  There was the scrape of a chair on the floor – Lucas must have been waiting in the kitchen. I could easily picture him vacillating between wanting to sit quietly and wait, or wanting to work to take his mind off things. I heard his slow footsteps before he opened the door.

  "Christopher," he said, relieved. "I thought – "

  His gaze flicked past my shoulder then, and I could see the barest rush of fear behind his eyes.

  "Good morning, Lucas," I said. "I've brought some friends who wanted to meet you."

  He recovered well. "Please, come in."

  "This is Tommy and his daughter Gweniveve – "

  "Call me Gwen," she said easily.

  "And you know the kid," I added with a grin.

  "H'lo," Lucas mumbled, ducking his head.

  "Pleasure," Tommy said, and Gwen held out her hand. Lucas wiped his palms on the tail of his shirt, then looked horrified at his own actions and shook her hand hastily.

  "I don't suppose, being new, you'll have heard about us," Gwen said, as Lucas withdrew far enough to let us in and close the door.

  "No – no," Lucas confessed. "Are you, uh, staying long?"

  "A bit," Tommy said. "Not through the winter."

  "Being the local land-owner and all, we thought we'd come say hello, ask permission to stay," Gwen announced. Tommy frowned at her.

  "It's, uh, it's not my land," Lucas stammered. "I just pay rent. I don't even pay rent on the field."

  "Well, better to ask," Gwen replied. "We're in sight of your windows, after all."

  "It isn't my place to say," Lucas murmured.

  "Do you have visitors often?" Tommy asked.

  "Not to speak of. Christopher and the boy, of course," Lucas said, and then blurted, "I don't care, honestly, I don't think you'll rob me and I haven't got anything worth stealing anyway."

  Tommy and Gwen glanced at each other before bursting out laughing. The boy elbowed Lucas in the ribs.

  "It's all right, Lucas. They know," I said gently.

  "Just...so that you do," Lucas continued, flushing red.

  "There's no reason to be scared of us," Gwen said. "Or worry overmuch about our opinion. That's something land-owners do."

  Lucas looked at her, shy still but no longer paralyzed by it. "I suppose it doesn't matter as much when you don't have the same neighbors from one day to the next."

  "Was on the tip of my tongue to say," Tommy agreed. "You could learn from him, Christopher."

  "I already have," I agreed.

  "We're told you're an artist," Gwen continued. "Do you barter at all? Or are you wealthy already?"

  "I...never have but I could, I guess. Would you....would you like to see?" Lucas asked, gesturing to the doorway into his workshop. Tommy, already standing near the door, leaned through with interest, Gwen bending around his shoulder.

  "Ooo-ho," Tommy said, impressed. "Did you make all of those?"

  "All but a few," Lucas replied, as they stepped into the workshop. He followed them, the boy pushi
ng ahead, and I stood in the doorway and watched, pleased.

  "You must spend a fair amount of time at work," Tommy observed, reaching up to one long rope of masks and pushing it gently to make it sway.

  "Most of my time, usually. Less, in the past week or two," Lucas replied. Gwen reached out for one of the barely-finished masks on the table. "Watch the paint, it's still wet."

  She carefully balanced the edges of the mask on her fingertips, admiring it. I don't remember what question she asked him, but it led to another and another – both her and Tommy peppering him with inquiries about his craft and his materials, while the boy played with leather scraps and glue at one of the tables, avoiding looking directly at any of the masks.

  With every sentence, the tension in Lucas's shoulders seemed to relax a fraction. His voice settled down from a tight, nervous tone into his natural register, and he started moving quickly among the worktables, fear forgotten as he picked up other masks or materials to show them. The Socrates mask had been finished – it looked splendid, haloed in dried and preserved hemlock.

  "That man is born Friendly," Tommy said to me in an undertone, as Gwen admired Socrates. "Some fool's ruined him, is all."

  "Ruined him?" I asked.

  "Some teacher. Or his father, maybe. Could be natural temperament, I suppose, but he likes to sell his wares."

  "He likes to talk about his masks. That's different."

  "Not to my family," Tommy replied. "Nor to him. Lucas!"

  "Yes?" Lucas asked, looking up from the mask.

  "Are you in need of any cold-weather clothing?" Tommy asked. "We make our own and sell it. Also carven wood toys, some leather working, some food. Rabbits and chickens for cooking."

  "You want masks?" Lucas gave Gwen a confused look. "What for?"

  "Well, for beauty's sake, and they'll sell well," she said, beaming at him.

  "I could use a new coat," he said, a little self-consciousness creeping back in. "Would that be expensive?"

  "Not for you," Tommy clapped him on the shoulder. "Come down to camp this evening and we'll fit you."

  "Oh I – I could do that," Lucas agreed. Gwen picked up a half-finished mask – clay, on a wire armature – and laughed at the puff-cheeked face on it. Lucas took it, pointing out details to her, even smiling a little. He'd taken to Gwen much faster than anyone else he'd met, myself included.

  I had a moment of concern that it was Gwen, and not the Friendly, which interested him and made him forget himself for a while. Little good comes of land-owners chasing after pretty Friendly girls. They're like the old stories about selkies: they might stay awhile if they liked the look of you, but it was never for life. To enjoy the idea of the Friendly was fine, but it was dangerous to take their easygoing affection too personally.

  I shouldn't have worried. Lucas protected his heart well. He was interested in love, I think, in the way we express and attract it -- but he didn't really see that he had a share in it. As fascinated and confused by people as he was -- the way they came together , the way they cared for each other -- his was almost always the quiet, studious analysis of an outsider.

  Chapter SEVEN

  As the winter grew colder, an increasing number of people in Low Ferry began to appear in the distinctive, colorful coats and hats that the Friendly made, either newly-purchased or taken down out of storage from previous years. They were beautiful pieces of work, well worth the cost: double-layer gloves with buttery leather on the palms, quilted coats decorated with brass buttons and fleecy lining, straps covered in beads and bells that fitted over snow-boots to make them look more festive. The Friendly would sell for cash or barter for goods, and for a small fee would tailor the clothing too.

  A few days after the Friendly arrived, Nona Harrison had her twin babies. We'd tried to get her into town for it, but they came a little early and caught us all by surprise. Kirchner was only about halfway to the farm when they were born, but fortunately Low Ferry had a midwife who lived out that way, and Bertha looked after Nona just fine. It's pretty common for winter babies to be home births, which is why there aren't too many of them if it can be avoided. Both babies were healthy and we expected the population of Low Ferry to increase by two, but...it didn't, quite.

  "Did you know Bertha?" Paula asked me, when the news finally hit town. "She wasn't born here, you know, came out in the seventies my dad says. I think she was a hippie."

  "More of her than know her, she's not a big reader," I answered, toying with the edge of the receipt-paper where it stuck out of the till. "Wasn't a big reader, I mean."

  "It's terrible she died, but everyone's sort of thinking it..."

  "At least it wasn't Nona or the babies?" I said with a grim smile.

  "Yeah. I mean, I'm sorry to lose Bertha, but it's always harder when a baby dies. I'm glad Nona's boys are healthy."

  "Well," I said, and then stopped and glanced away.

  "What?"

  "Have you heard people talking about them?" I asked.

  "About the boys? Not much, why?"

  "Listen, I don't believe this, you know I'm a practical guy. But I don't exactly set policy in the village. People sort of...they think there's something wrong with them. Spiritually."

  Paula cocked her head. "Really? Why?"

  "I don't know exactly, but Kirchner's been out to see Nona and he says she's not doing as well as she could be. Steve Harrison says he's worried about his wife. None of the women from the church will go out there. I think they think the babies killed Bertha."

  "Killed her!"

  "Well, she did die at the Harrison place, and it wasn't very long after the babies were born. I'm only telling you what I've heard," I said, as Lucas and the boy entered the shop. I put a finger to my lips and Paula nodded. Lucas hung his coat up on a hook near the door, gave Paula a shy nod, and vanished into the shelves. The boy examined the comic books critically.

  "When are you getting new ones?" he demanded.

  "The roads are out, kiddo," I answered. "Unless they're planning on airlifting comic books in, it'll probably be another week. Buy a real book, feed your mind."

  "My mind's full already," he replied.

  "No such thing," Paula ruffled his hair and gave me a nod. "See you around, Christopher."

  "You know where to find me," I said. When the door closed behind her, I called, "She's gone now, Lucas, you can come out."

  He gave me a sheepish smile around the corner of a bookshelf. "Force of habit."

  "No skin off my nose. Nice coat, by the way – is that the one Gwen and Tommy sold you?" I asked, coming around the counter to examine it. It was thick and gray, with black hook-and-eye fastenings and a soft black lining on the pockets and hood. He gave me a proud nod.

  "I gave them eight masks for it, promised two more," he said. "Cheap at the price."