“Yes,” said Dag recklessly. He suspected that Remo would follow him from sheer habit if he displayed a patrol leader’s confidence, and no need to enlighten the youth as to how hollow a confidence that so often was. “Besides, we won’t be alone.”
“I’ll think about it,” said Remo cautiously. He added after a little silence, “Whit sure likes his money. Yet it’s nothing, in its ground. Just metal chips.”
“If money has a ground, it exists inside folks’ heads,” Dag agreed. “But it’s mighty convenient for trade. It’s like a memory of trade you can hold in your hand, and take anywhere.” Anywhere it was recognized. Four great farmer towns—all along this river system, curiously enough—coined their own money these days, in addition to odd lots of coin left from the ancient days that turned up from time to time. The clerks in the goods-sheds were gaining a lot of practice in figuring, Dag guessed, making the coins all dance fairly with one another—or sometimes, he’d heard, not so fairly. In which case, people got a lot of practice at arguing. Even Lakewalkers used farmer coin, and not only while out patrolling.
“Lakewalker camp credit is better,” said Remo. “Bandits can’t knock you on the head and take it away from you. It’s not a temptation to the weak-willed or cruel.”
“It can’t be stolen with a cudgel,” Dag agreed, his mood darkening in memory. “But it can be stolen with words. Trust me on that.”
Remo looked over at him in some wonder. But before he could inquire further, Bo and Hod turned up at the foot of the gangplank. Hod had one of Bo’s arms drawn over his shoulder and was getting him aimed down the middle of the boards.
Dag was surprised to see them. One of the reasons Berry had been amenable to the proposed trip to the mint in the morning, despite the delay to their departure, was that she hadn’t expected her uncle back tonight. She’d figured she and Hawthorn, who had been taken to the mint once by their papa on a previous trip, would use the time looking for Bo while Fawn and Whit went off touring.
Bo was saying querulously to Hod, “I still don’t see the point of making me drink all that water. It just took up space for better bev’rages. And I have to piss just as bad.”
“Your head’ll feel better in the morning,” Hod assured him. “It’s a good trick I know about, really.”
“Yeah, well, we’ll see,” muttered Bo, but let Hod steer him over the gangplank. His knees buckled on the jump down, but Hod kept him upright. Despite several hours of following Bo around Silver Shoals riverside taverns, Hod was pretty sober, Dag noted. Hod looked up at Dag and Remo, watching from the roof, and cast them a shy smile. He maneuvered the old man inside, to be greeted with even greater surprise by Berry.
“Well, that’s interestin’,” murmured Dag.
“How so?” said Remo.
“Seems Hod’s got a talent for managing difficult drunks. I wasn’t expecting anything like that. You wonder where and how he learned it, so young.”
Remo’s brows drew down. He was quiet for a long time. “Kind of disturbing, in a way. In light of how he flinches at most everything.”
“Uh-huh,” said Dag, pleased at Remo for following through that far. The boy might make a patrol leader someday after all, if he survived. Remo was open enough again to sense the ripple of approval in Dag’s ground, and his spine straightened a bit, unwittingly.
Dag smiled and slid down off the roof to go find out what Fawn had arranged for their bedding.
14
To Fawn’s bemusement, Remo tagged along on the trip to the mint, which made her wonder what Dag had been saying to him last night. She’d thought Remo had been too terrified of the town to set foot in it. He started the tour with a set look on his face that could more easily be mistaken for disapproval. Which made her wonder in turn what emotions some of Dag’s grimmer looks masked—a Lakewalker bride would not have to guess, she reflected with a sigh. At the last moment, Dag thought to ask Hod if he wanted to come along, which made the boy turn red with pleasure and nod mutely and vigorously.
Disappointingly, the mint was not in operation that day, but in return for a few copper crays a man took visitors around, answered their questions, and, Fawn suspected, kept an eye on them. He certainly eyed the pair of Lakewalkers askance. Even idle, the coin-stamping presses were fascinating, almost as complex as Aunt Nattie’s loom, and much heavier. “Sessile,” Dag muttered, staring at them over her shoulder with profound Lakewalker suspicion of sitting targets. Remo nodded agreement.
On the walk back through town, she and Whit were diverted by a shop selling tools and hardware—not a blacksmithery, as nothing but small repairs were done on the premises, but more like a goods-shed. Most of the items for sale seemed to come from upriver, including a fascinating Tripoint stove cast entirely of black iron, with an iron pipe acting as a chimney to take the smoke away. It was like an iron hearth-oven box turned inside out, made to stand out into a room with the fire on the inside.
“Look!” Fawn told Dag in excitement. “It has to be so much better for heating, because a fireplace only shows one face to a room, and this thing shows, what, six. Six times better. And you wouldn’t have to bend and crouch to cook on it, and it wouldn’t blow smoke in your face, either, and you’re less like to catch your clothes or hair on fire, too!” Oh, I want one!
He stared at it and her in mild alarm. “You’d need a wagon and team to shift it, Spark!”
“Naturally you wouldn’t cart it around with you, any more than you would a fireplace. Fire pit,” she revised, thinking of Lakewalkers camps.
“It would have to be planted someplace permanent.”
“Hm,” he said, looking at her with one of his odder smiles. “Farmer tool.”
“Well, of course.” She tossed her head, imagining someplace permanent where you could plant such a stove, and a garden. And children. Not a Lakewalker camp, they’d proved that. Not a farmer village, or at least not West Blue. A town like this one? Maybe not, as such a big concentration of folks plainly made Lakewalkers deeply uncomfortable. Where, then? Regretfully, she allowed Dag and Remo to drag them away from the fascinating emporium.
Back on the Fetch, they found a crisis brewing as Berry and Bo were ready to cast off, but Hawthorn’s raccoon kit had disappeared. Bo was all for leaving without the pesky creature, assuring the distraught Hawthorn that his pet would swim down the river and find a new home in the woods just fine. Hawthorn envisioned more dire fates, loudly. Then the listening Remo made himself hero of the hour—or at least of Hawthorn—by walking along the bank and retrieving the kit from a boat down the row where, caught raiding the pantry, it was about to meet its end at either the hands of the boat’s irate cook or the jaws of the excited boat-dog. Remo had a dangerously attractive face-lightening smile like Dag’s, Fawn discovered as he handed the little masked miscreant back to its ecstatic owner. Berry noticed it too, and smiled in pure contagion; Whit first smiled at her smile, then frowned at Remo.
As the boat made midstream and peace fell, Fawn pulled out her wool and drop spindle and took a seat on the bow to spin, watch the riverbank pass by, and think. Remo had to have opened and used his groundsense for that swift rescue, despite his aversion to farmer grounds. For Lakewalkers, hunting must be a very different activity than for farmers, if they could just stroll into a woods and find prey as easily as a woman picking jars off her pantry shelf. Although she supposed convincing, say, a bear to submit to having its skin peeled was just as dangerous to a Lakewalker hunter as to any farmer. Or was it? Were there other practical uses for persuasion than just on farmer merchants and maidens? And horses and mosquitoes and fireflies. She would have to ask Dag.
Twisting her yarn plump for warmth—it would knit up faster that way, too—she made quite a bit of progress before it was time to break off and go start lunch. An iron stove, she thought longingly, could be installed on a boat like this one and not be so sessile after all. But it would be a short love affair—you’d have to sell it downstream just as the boats were sold off at j
ourney’s end, sometimes as houseboats for the poorer riverfolk but more usually broken up for their lumber. Most of Graymouth was built of former flatboats, she’d heard. She hated to think of the Fetch so dismembered, and hoped someone would buy it for a cozy floating home.
As she made her way into the kitchen, she found Dag sitting at the drop-table, his head bent strangely. He was staring down at a distressing lumpy gray blob on a pie plate, his face drained and almost greenish.
“What in the world is that thing?” Fawn asked, nodding at the plate. “You’re not going to eat it, are you?” The man certainly needed to get more food inboard, but preferably something wholesome. This looked like something dead too long that had been fished from the bottom of the river.
“Last piece of apple pie from last night,” he said.
“That’s not my—” She looked more closely. “Dag, what did you do?”
“Ground-ripped it. Tried to. I think I just found my upper limit.”
“Dag! Two oats, I said!”
“I tried two oats. They were good. So were five and ten. Time to try something else. This was food, too!”
“Was, yeah!” As she stared in a mix of exasperation and horror, Dag abruptly clawed off his arm harness and dropped it, bending over with his left arm held tight to his body. He swallowed ominously. Fawn darted for a washbasin and shoved it under his nose barely in time. He grabbed it and turned away from her, trying to retch quietly, but he didn’t bring up much. Wordlessly, she handed him a cup of water with which to rinse and spit.
“Thanks,” he whispered.
“Done?”
“Not sure.” He set the basin on the bench beside him, ready to hand. “This feels bizarre. It’s like my ground is trying to get rid of it, but it can’t, so my body tries instead.”
“But there wasn’t anything in your stomach.”
“I’m right grateful about that, just now.”
“Is this the same way you get sick after your healing groundwork?”
“No,” he said slowly. “That’s more light-headed, like blood loss except it passes quickly. This…is heavy like indigestion. It just sits there. Except in both cases the disruption of my ground is affecting my body.”
“So is your ground like a horse, or like a dog?”
He blinked at her in dizzy confusion. “Say what?”
“We had some farm dogs that would wolf down any garbage you left around, and then heave it back up if it disagreed with ’em, which it generally did. Usually someplace where you were going to step, seemed like.” She scowled in memory. “Then there was that dog of Reed’s whose joy was to roll in smelly things—manure, dead possums—and then rush up to share his bliss with you. But that’s dogs for you.”
Dag pressed the back of his hand to his lips. “Indeed…Are you ragging me, Spark?”
She shook her head, though her fierce glance said, You deserve to be ragged. “Then there’s horses. Now, horses can’t vomit like dogs do. Once they’ve eaten something wrong, they’re in big trouble and no mistake. Papa lost a good pony to colic, once, that had got into the corn, which is why Fletcher is so careful about fixing fencerows and keeping the feed bins latched tight. It’d been his pony, see. So if you ground-rip something bad, can you get rid of it or not?”
“Evidently not.” Dag’s brow wrinkled. “I couldn’t get rid of those toxic spatters after I ground-ripped the malice back in Raintree, either, come to think. They were blighting me, poisoning my ground. They were drawn out and destroyed with the rest of the residue when we broke the malice’s groundlock, but that trick wouldn’t work for this.”
“Will this kill you?” she asked in sudden terror. “Just a piece of pie—my pie?”
He shook his head. “Don’t think so. It’s not poison. And I didn’t—couldn’t—rip it all the way. But I sure wish I hadn’t done that.” He hunched tighter, grimacing.
“Then will you get better slow like after the mosquito?”
“I guess we’ll find out,” he sighed.
“Ground-colic,” said Fawn. “Eew.”
She took away the plate and basin and emptied them over the back rail, then returned to put Dag firmly to bed. It was a measure of his malaise that he went without argument.
She made his excuses to the others, come lunch—he thinks it’s something he ate—which were accepted without question but with lots of speculation as to what it might have been, since everyone else had eaten Fawn’s boat-food as well. In desperation—and in defense of her reputation as a cook—she finally suggested it might have been something he’d got hold of up in town that morning, which was allowed with wise nods. Remo seemed the most disturbed by the development, stopping by their bed-nook to ask Dag if he was all right and if there was anything he could do. Dag’s response was muffled and repelling. Fawn thought that Dag should take the only other Lakewalker available into his confidence about these alarming ground-ripping experiments, but wasn’t certain enough to force it. She was out of her depth, here. The notion that Dag might be too was not reassuring.
Dag’s loss was Hod’s gain, as he was suddenly promoted to sweep-man that afternoon in Dag’s place. Hod was clumsy and timid and mixed up his right and his left, but responded slowly both to Berry’s patience and Bo’s familiar hungover bluntness. His panicked mistakes became fewer as his confidence grew, though he seemed so surprised to be told he was doing well that he almost dropped his broad-oar overboard.
To Fawn’s immense relief, Dag revived enough in the evening to eat real food, although she noticed he left his arm harness off. He was still very quiet, answering most queries with a headshake and then pressing his forehead as if in regret of the sudden motion. But the next day Dag went back to taking turns on the oars, although only after a promise to the eager Hod that he would now be added to the regular rotation.
They pulled in that noon at a village that was seemingly a traditional stop for the Clearcreeks, where Berry found a fellow who both knew her and remembered the Briar Rose stopping last fall. So her papa had made it at least this far. The goods-shed man couldn’t recall Boss Clearcreek saying anything unusual about the trip, was very sorry to learn of his disappearance, and shook his head over the news about the lost Tripoint boats. Whit sold his first batch of window glass, and they took to the river once more. The cool autumn sun that made the water sparkle and the riverbanks glow delighted Fawn, but was not welcomed by Berry, eyeing the falling water.
Late that afternoon Berry’s glumness was unfortunately vindicated. The boat boss was sitting with Fawn, Dag, and Hod at the kitchen table, nibbling leftovers and asking about life in West Blue, when a grinding noise from the hull made her look up and set her teeth. She stared at the ceiling, thumping with sudden bootsteps, and muttered, “Bo, you’re too close to the bank, bring her over hard now—” but broke off with an aggravated snarl as the Fetch quite perceptibly ground to a halt.
“What is it?” asked Fawn sharply; Hod looked equally alarmed.
“Sand bar,” Berry called over her shoulder as she swung out the back hatch. They all followed her out and clambered up onto the roof, where she was peering over the side with her hands planted on her hips and saying to Bo, “What did you want to go and do that for? We’re scrunched in good now!”
Bo was apologetic, in a guilty-surly sort of way, blaming the island they were stuck beside for growing that bar out in an uncalled-for way. Whit was rather red-faced, and Remo, catching Dag’s eye, looked hangdog. Berry sighed in exasperation, which reassured Fawn that this was a normal sort of emergency, and Berry and Bo took up a practiced routine for efforts to push them off again.
The first step was to swing the oars down and use them as stilts to walk the boat off the bar. Dag and Remo actually broke their big oar with their grunting effort, but the Fetch did not budge, and Berry abandoned that method before they either broke another—she was not oversupplied with spares—or ripped out the massive oak oarlock as well. The next step was to send all the men ashore, lightening the l
oad, to try tugging with ropes. Copperhead, whom Berry kept calling Dag’s land-skiff, was sent too, with a rope tied to his saddle. The men stripped to their drawers and boots and waded into the chill water, grimly or with yelps, which was pretty riveting—Fawn caught Berry staring too, and her wide grin flashed back—but still didn’t shift the boat.
The third method was to settle back and wait for a rise to float the Fetch off the bar, a choice the shivering crew had scorned a couple of hours back but now applauded. As they were yelling this debate across the little stretch of water between the boat and the churned-up bank, a long, low hoot, rising to three sharp toots, sounded from upriver. “That’s the Snapping Turtle’s horn,” Berry said, her head swiveling.
The keelboat appeared around the bend, riding easily down the center of the channel. A man in—dry—red-and-blue striped trousers cheerfully waved a tin horn as long as his arm at the mud-splashed crew of the Fetch strung along the shore. “That there’s a boat, not a plow, Boss Berry!” he called. “You tryin’ to dredge a new channel over there?” Berry snorted indignation, but her lips twitched.
As Boss Wain strode to the bow and stood with his thumbs in his green leather braces, grinning at them, Berry cupped her hands and shouted, “Hey, Wain! You’ve got muscle over there! How’s about a tow?”
He cupped his hands and yelled back, “I dunno, Berry—how’s about a kiss?”
Over on the bank, Whit, despite being mostly blue, flushed red.
“Daisy-goat’ll pucker up for you!” Berry shouted back. “You’ll think you’re back with the home girls!”
Wain shook his head. “Not good enough! What’s your cargo?”
“Mainly salt butter, Tripoint tools, and window glass!”
Wain’s grin stretched as the Snapping Turtle slid past. “Then I guess we’ll sell our tools and glass downstream before you!” He patted his lips in a broad gesture. “Unless you want to change your mind about that kiss?”